


Complimens

by cto10121



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Shakespeare RPF | Elizabethan & Jacobean Theater RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Angst, Drabble, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, Magic, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Romance, this is r&j after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28533087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cto10121/pseuds/cto10121
Summary: She is a 6th year Hufflepuff, he a 7th year Gryffindor. Pureblood and half-blood, holly and sycamore, saint and pilgrim. Heirs of noble families on opposite ends of the political spectrum. They are opposites. They are compliments. An ordinary session of Transfiguration tutoring blooms into a love too great and too powerful not to be challenged. HP AU.
Relationships: Juliet Capulet/Romeo Montague
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. Part 1: Patronus...Easy

**Author's Note:**

> This is, by far, the weirdest thing I've ever (seriously) done, and I've literally written Inuyasha on Broadway. Dark days, my friends. 
> 
> So the best way I can describe this is *takes deep breath* a Original French RetJ/Harry Potter crossover or AU drabble series fic (you could flip a coin, really) with elements of the original R&J and Shakespeare RPF thrown in for good measure. My original plan was to make a fun, tongue-in-cheek oneshot based on the Hungarian production littered with tons of bad Weasleytwin!Mercutio and Jily!Retj and Snape!Tybalt jokes, but over a hundred hours on Pottermore, HP Wiki, Lexicon, and selective re-reading of the HP tomes later...well, it's goodbye crackfic, hello serious fic novella. Quarantine, it really does things to you. But hey, at least this fandom now officially has at least one HP AU, as far as I know, albeit of admittedly dubious quality.
> 
> HP-wise, I have decided to set this in the fall of 1971, before the Marauders (their first year, actually) so as not to mix in the two sets of characters and their timeline. I was pleasantly surprised to find plenty of harmonic chimes between the two universes, even in the French musical adaptation, but then again, with R&J being such an iconic canonical work and HP being a British legacy gumbo soup it is, it was inevitable. I also decided to continue my short poetic drabble structure, though I've separated the parts into conventional chapters for easier reading. Anyway, hope you enjoy - give kudos, comments, feedback, etc.

**Complimens**

**_Part 1_ **

_**Patronus** _  
  
_September 1971_

Of all the boys her year that could have inspired her deepest fascination, even love, why did it have to be the very worst?

“This is more than just a matter of curriculum or your OWLs and NEWTs.” Their new DADA teacher, their fifth one in five years, a dark-haired and rugged Professor Escalus was saying, pacing in the flat-footed stance of hardened ex-Aurors. “This is a matter of survival. What with the...political situation as it stands, defending yourself against any type of dark creature is absolutely requisite, and dementors and Lethifolds may be among the dark creatures you may encounter. As it is an advanced spell, I do not expect perfection. I do expect, however, results.”

Advanced DADA. Sixth-year Hufflepuffs and seventh-year Gryffindors. Normally such an arrangements would have been odd, but these were by no means normal times. Clashes by pureblood supremacists and their opponents were almost daily now, the hospital wing overflowing with hexed students in clandestine duels. It grew so bad that a new assistant nurse had to be called in, a birdlike Pomfrey only some years graduated and tough as nails. The castle had never been divided since Grindelwald’s reign, although they say this so-called Lord Voldemort is even worse. She had never been so divided within herself.

“You’ll be put into pairs to practice the charm and _only_ to practice the charm,” said Escalus, his eyes flashing in almost manic warning. “Remember to keep your happy memory firmly in mind, the happiest you’ve got. The first to achieve at least an incorporeal Patronus either today or in the next week will be awarded fifty house points. Though don’t get your hopes up. Few manage even a haze...”

“A time-waster, then,” muttered her friend, Angelica, beside her as the class tittered. “Well, if at least we get to choose our own partners...”

But as she thought, heart sinking, Escalus went by the roster, and she watched both Angelica go, with a dramatic eye-roll, to Bilius Weasley and their red-haired friend Laurence to Benvolio Montague. And of course, because she was a plaything of Fate, that fickle whore, she got—

“Romeo Montague.”

Him.

It didn’t seem to matter how much she saw of him: The mystique of his beauty, dark and silky like a starry midnight sky, contrasting sharply with the lazily knotted Gryffindor red-gold cravat, only seemed to grow, hitting her like an ocean wave or a cruel slap to the face. That beauty was a cold wind now, an impassive gaze.

“All right, Capulet?” he asked quietly.

She felt safe only to nod, heart at her throat. It was best this way. There was only one good rule with engaging with Romeo Montague: Simply put, do not engage. She had learned that the hard way.

“Focus clearly on your happy thought,” said Professor Escalus, eyes glittering in command and almost mania. “Raise your wands on the count of three: One...two... _three_.”  
  


**_Metamorphosis  
  
_ **

It wasn’t Professor Arden’s fault (so she kept telling herself, over and over again). He was new to Hogwarts, after all, being but a few months in the castle after McGonagall’s personal leave of absence for a mysterious reason (rumor had it a long lost love, now a victim of a nasty anti-Muggle raid. Juicy stuff). So how could he have known?

“Your marks have slipping of late, Miss Capulet,” their wiry-haired Transfiguration professor remarked mildly; it made the disappointment in his tone all the more unbearable. “Both Vanishing and Conjuring are among the most difficult to master in this subject, and this year is the year where you learn nonverbal spells.”

Transfiguration! What was it about this subject that caused her so much trouble? In the past she had been able to succeed through much study, but now as they began their unit on Conjuring she hit a wall. It certainly wasn’t Professor Arden himself, whose transition had been nigh seamless, and whose passion for the subject was unquestionable and catching.

“There have long been theories,” he told them on his first day, with obvious relish, “that the basis of all magic as essentially transformative. It is linked vitally to the elements of change—the roll of the seas, the quake of the ground, the gusts of air and whirlwinds of fire. The Greek Muggles especially have long acknowledged it, and they called it by a specific name.”

And he disappeared, replaced by a large phoenix, much like Fawkes except a sleek ebony with a long purple streak, before their professor reappeared.

“Metamorphosis,” he said simply to stunned, but awed applause. “Like all magics, it is an art.”

That said, she sometimes missed McGonagall’s more direct, no-nonsense approach. Arden could get a bit too woolly, too metaphorical in his explanations.

“I’m just not good enough, Professor.”

“That is assuredly not true, Miss Capulet,” he said gently, though eyeing her almost scandalized, as if she just said something entirely absurd. “You just need a different...approach, I think. Tell you what, come by my office this afternoon.”

And there she saw him, talking with unexpected casualness to their chatty professor, as if metamorphed from some other object, as if Summoned— _Accio Beauty!_ —to her. She reluctantly approached.

“...Hufflepuff, so there should be no conflicts on that score,” Professor Arden was saying. “Ah, Miss Capulet, I see, has arrived.”

He turned to her, at first indifferently and then with dawning realization, a dark flower blooming in real time. Being so close to him was too much; her carefully schooled, neutral expression faltered. They stared at each other.

“Romeo Montague, Juliette Capulet, Capulet, Montague,” said Professor Arden graciously, his dark, gentle eyes gazed curiously between the two. “I was just thinking if Mr. Montague here would like to tutor you in Transfiguration. Mr. Montague has quite the daft hand in the subject; I haven’t found fault with his spellwork yet. If you two agree with each other, we’ll have a match, so to speak.”

Didn’t their professor see, didn’t he realize the disaster occurring, unfolding before his eyes, Montague staring at her with growing, laser-like intensity, she struggling how to remember to breathe, blood pounding in her face? Surely he couldn’t be that thick?

“I do so love it when solutions present themselves so neatly,” said Arden cheerily. “Do you?”

Apparently he could.  
  


**_Rescind  
_ **

“Please don’t.”

When Professor Arden left, a pregnant, thrilling silence fell between them, although her traitor heart was beating so fast that she was half-convinced it was audible.

“Don’t what?”

“Rescind.” And then to her shock and her poor, overworked, excitable heart, he smiled. “You were about to tell me I don’t have to help you. I could see it in your look.”

Of course he would be able to read her that way. She took a breath. “It’s best this way, Montague. Besides, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“You won’t,” he immediately. “Besides, I need help too.”

He said this so swiftly that she instantly doubted it. “Really.”

“Yeah. Arden mentioned you’re good at Charms...?”

Her favorite subject. She hadn’t even known Arden had known this. “What, are you having trouble?”

“Loads,” he said with a straight face. “I’m about two levels down to a T.”

“What do you have?”

“An A.”

She was surprised into a laugh, and for some reason his lightness vanished, replaced by a tenderness. “Yes, very shameful.”

“It’s NEWTs year. See? It can be quid pro quo. Where do you want us to meet?”

It was that _us_ that did it, that small lumping that made her feel strangely intimate. It was enough, anyway, to make her commit her first mistake.  
  


**_Contradictions_ **

“You’re a mess of contradictions, Capulet.”

Rewind a bit.

In the library they reviewed material: Object-to-object, animal-to-object, object-to-animal, all with several components to them. None of these were any trouble to her per se, except for the fact that she was now expected to do them nonverbally. As it was, this last defeated her.

“Try a counterclockwise spin,” he said as her spindle became a mouse tail and then a spindle again.

“That isn’t in _Intermediate Transfiguration_ ,” she disagreed.

“No,” he said agreeably and her heart sputtered as he stretched. “It’s my addition, a kind of shortcut. I got impatient with the spiral movement, so I experimented.”

She had a feeling, she thought as he gazed about, that he got impatient easily. “Wouldn’t that contradict the transfiguration?”

“Transfiguration is always contradictory. Much like you, actually.”

Her, contradictory? “How so?” 

“You’re pureblood nobility in egalitarian Hufflepuff with a Gryffindor pureblood fanatic for a cousin. You’re a mess of contradictions, Capulet.”

“Tybalt is _not_ a fanatic.” But oddly enough she didn’t feel offended by his bluntness. On the contrary, she felt justified somehow. There was a growing heat inside her, a flickering flame.

“I could say the same about you, Montague,” she said, with a mental shake of her head. “Half-blood heir to pureblood nobility, with a Slytherin blood traitor for a friend.” For Mercutio Escalus’ open mockery of blood purity was well-known. It had made him one of the most detested students among the purebloods and their sycophantic supporters. Tybalt couldn’t even say his name without disdain dripping in his tone.

“True.” But then he sobered. “Does that bother you?”

“What part?”

“You know what part.”

As if she had any prejudices on that score. But she was her mother’s daughter in this sense, and mastered the art of diplomacy. “I worry for my cousin a lot. I don’t like this new lord and I don’t think he or his supporters are at all worthy to follow.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said quietly.

Half blood, pureblood, Mudblood. She’d be lying if those names didn’t have an effect on her, albeit it was a muted echoing pang, the habit of an old deference. But staring into that grace of beauty and talent made those words ring ever more hollow. As if reading her silence correctly, he leaned back with an air of satisfaction.

“So what I’m having trouble with is my Summoning,” he said, apropos to nothing. “Flitwick is on my case about it, it’s embarrassing.”

He could improvise on object-to-animal transfiguration and yet could not master Summoning? This was Peeves-level of trolling. “That’s fourth year stuff, Montague.”

“I got rusty, and plus Flitwick wants us to practice nonverbal casting all the time. I bet you’re a master at Summoning.”

Why did every single word he uttered feel like he was saying something else entirely? She elected to take the high road. “You just need to picture the object in your mind, clearly. Here, try Summoning this needle.”

She was relieved beyond words when, placing it at the end of the desk, he took her at her word, eyeing the silver intently. He did the silent wand movement, and—clearly he hadn’t exaggerated—the needle faltered halfway through the air, falling; he managed to catch it by the tip of his long fingers, eyeing it wistfully.

“Already you’re a help,” he said and then showed it to her. “Turn this into a jewel for me?”

For him, she thought with a shock, and it was like seeing her face in the mirror for the first time in years. She had already raised her wand when she realized what she was doing. But by then it was too late.

“Beautiful.” He took up the ruby earring (paste, but with a rich color), admiring the shine in the air. To her surprise, he held it up near her ear. He shook his head, almost to himself.

“Not at all comparable,” he murmured, almost to himself, and for a flicker of a moment she was lost in a haze of rose.  
  


**_Status  
_ **

Seventh year Gryffindor. Half-blood, tragically so: pureblood mother with Muggle father, the latter killed in a nasty Muggle-baiting incident. Unusually, though not unheard of for a pureblood of a noble and most ancient house, Mrs. Montague retained the name for her heir through an expensive trial that ultimately ruled in her favor, which in itself said a lot about the strength of Mrs. Montague’s character. Although the family had a long pedigree, even producing some powerful Dark wizards, this generation’s friends and allies were the usual suspects: The Meadows, McKinnons, Prewetts, Longbottoms, Potters, etc. In short, as her cousin Tybalt sneeringly if accurately put it, pureblood nobility turned consummate blood traitors. The very practical part of her—the part of her that was a proud Hufflepuff—always understood this, understood this, knew what and who she was dealing with.

It was the other part of her, the one that governed her days, that was increasingly reigned, increasingly troubled. And one that her friends became the inadvertently voice of.

“Well, I’d definitely let him tutor me all he wants.” In the Great Hall, Angelica fanned herself in a (only slightly ironic) theatrical gesture. “Is it me, or are most of these half-bloods so _fit_? It’s a damned shame.”

 _Eleanora Montague is a handsome witch,_ pointed out Laurence, sweeping her long red hair to one side. _Powerful, too. Jenkins kept her on as Head of Magical Law Enforcement after Leach._

“Hmm, yes, but they don’t look very much alike, do they?” said Angelica critically.

_Maybe it’s the Muggle side all along._

“Oh, don’t let Tybalt hear you say that—er, sign it—unless you want a harangue about Muggle blood.”

And so she inwardly sighed as her two friends went at it.

If she were very honest with herself, she would admit that it was not his blood status, his family’s politics, or his name that truly mattered to her—in fact, all of that was shockingly less and less significant to her as the days went by. No, what increasingly mattered most was...well...

“That Rose Zabini, though.” In Divination, while they were supposed to be checking tea leaves, Angelica actually checked over her shoulder as if to wary of her hypothetical approach. “On-and-off for ages; this time it’s off, and by all accounts she broke it off. Still, you don’t see him exactly mourning, do you? Ugh, never mind, I’m dodging that hex. These walking talking love potions are not worth it.”

“Miss Prewett, Miss Weasley, stay on task.” Their willowy Divination professor had arrived, in her usual ivory robes and long braided hair, like a mahogany snake. “Miss Prewett, what can you see in Miss Capulet’s tea leaves?”

“Oh, er…” She quickly picked up her tea cup. “I think I saw a heart…either that or a pretzel, not sure…and a…flower?” She paused, looking up smiling at Juliette. “Merlin, I think it’s a rose. Love!”

“Very good. Then what is the complete reading?”

“Well, it’s a love discovery, definitely,” But then she frowned, picking up the astrology chart. “But Venus is in ascendance, crossed with Mars…so it’d be an unhappy love? And oh, I think I see a bird, usually they’re unlucky…so, ‘beware the star-crossed love?’”

“Very good, Miss Prewett,” said Professor Mortice, pale green eyes glittering in amusement, as if enjoying a private joke at their expense. “Ten points to Hufflepuff.”

Exes, tea leaves, magical ideologies, she thought as she stared into her dire tea cup. Divination was never her subject, exactly, but she could take a hint, especially when Fate deigns to spell it out for her in tea leaves. It was following it through that was the trouble.   
  


**_Family  
_ **

_Minister Jenkins has offered young Paris a position in the MLE. Junior Undersecretary!_ Her mother, not at all subtle either in person or in writing. This last part was even underlined. _Just one more year, and who knows? You know I have wrote him all about your studies already..._

“What does Aunt Bella want now?” Tybalt, during breakfast, sliding in beside her and recognizing the hand immediately.

 _“_ Paris Escalus has been promoted to Junior Undersecretary.” Reluctantly. Tybalt had always made his feelings towards Paris perfectly clear.

 _“_ Prat,” he said immediately and she couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Hasn’t changed a bit.”

 _“_ Mother says he still asks for me.” She had also gotten some letters from him, but she knew better than to tell Tybalt about them.

 _“_ You’re not still waiting for him, are you?” he almost demanded.

The ties of family, how they bind! All those useless last months of her fifth year, persuading herself to give Paris a chance, stuck between the wall of her parents’ fawning all throughout Christmas break and the sword that was Paris himself: Elegant, charming, and polite to the world, high-handed and self-absorbed in private. Although he was Sorted as a Hufflepuff, his ambitions for public office were pure Slytherin. Tybalt called him a snake in the badgers’ den; she had always felt guilty for privately concurring.

“No.”

“Good,” he said, appeased. “He was too old for you.”

“By all of two years.”

“The Escaluses are not so pure, anyway,” he continued said as if he hadn’t heard her. “There have been some Muggles and Squibs in the ‘line. Hidden away, of course, as usual.”

Not this nonsense again. “You know the Escaluses are as pureblood as the Blacks. This is really awful talk, Tybalt.”

“But true,” he said tightly. “Look around, Juliette. Everywhere you turn, they’re everywhere. Last war, they destroyed two cities and tried to slaughter a whole race. Isn’t it evident, how dangerous these creatures are?”

“And we aren’t? What was Grindelwald, then, a Tickling Charm?”

“We learn how to control our powers, and use them accordingly,” he said tersely. “Why do you think we come here? But Muggles...they’re unpredictable. Their ingenuity only seems to bring destruction.”

It’s not that Tybalt didn’t make sense, she thought with frustration. It was that it was a twisted one, the kind that bent and contorted, misapplied. “It’s always said Muggles are inferior. Yet how can people supposedly so inferior be so dangerous in their powers?”

“Through sheer numbers, cousin. Also, what’s with the questioning? You’re acting like a Ravenclaw Hatstall.”

Not quite. Actually, the Sorting Hat had made it clear to which other House she belonged. “I just like to be consistent.” She took his hand. “Because, Tybalt, I worry for you. I wouldn’t want you to end up with the likes of, say, Rosier and Lestrange—”

“Merlin, no. For one thing, I actually have standards.” But then at last he seemed to notice her expression and his face softened. He took her hand in comfort.

“Ignore Aunt and Uncle. You deserve more than that Paris. And quit worrying about me; my job is to worry about you.”

It was a good thing Tybalt was no Legilimens to look into her mind and see the kind of boy she fancied. Otherwise, prat or no, he would probably frog-march her to prim and proper pureblood Paris.  
  


**_Wrong  
_ **

“Er, Juliette Capulet?”

It was a Gryffindor student, a timid-looking third year. 

“Montague told me to tell you he is not going to make your lesson this afternoon,” he said awkwardly. “Sorry.”

Strange. He never missed one before. Fear shot through her. “What’s your name?”

“Val.”

“Val. Thank you for telling me.”

The Hogwarts grapevine didn’t keep her in ignorance for long: An ugly fight had erupted in the third floor corridor. A Muggleborn student—one Mary McDonald, Gryffindor—was harassed by Slytherin sixth years Malfoy and Rosier. Montague and Escalus had come across them, and an argument broke out. But then Tybalt joined the duel and here was where things got murky. The rapid-fire whispers didn’t make things easier.

_Escalus was so brutal, though, he told Malfoy, “Why don’t you go poison Jenkins, follow in Daddy’s footsteps—”_

_Savage!_

_Right, so Malfoy tried to jinx them—_

_And then Capulet came and he and Escalus had words—_

_Still, three against two, that’s not on—_

_Rosier was Stunned right away, pathetic—_

_Montague tried to stop them but then Capulet taunted him—_

_Got him good, by the looks of it, Lestrange was just telling me—_

It was all so uncertain, confusing. Only one thing was clear: The result was a month’s worth of detention for all of them and fifty points deducted for their houses. Escalus in the hospital wing for a few days, the only one badly injured enough. By the end of classes, when she could at last rush to see him in the hospital wing, it was to see Tybalt already stalking out, shoulders tense.

“What happened?”

“Not here” was his terse response. “Here…”

They went into an empty classroom, Tybalt shooting an impatient Stinging jinx at Peeves, who was scribbling _POLLY PRINGLE WANTS A CRACKER_ on the blackboard.

“What happened?” she insisted as Peeves howled away, cursing.

“Those cowards Rosier and Malfoy don’t have two cells to rub together,” he had growled, bitter. “And even they are worth ten of Montague and Escalus.”

“They say Escalus was jinxed to jelly! And you too—”

“Escalus just had an Engorgement Charm on his tongue. Child’s play, but he nearly choked. Your Montague, however…”

And as he showed his right arm, she gasped—his skin was covered in a slimy orange goo.

“Burns. Your Transfiguration tutor is no slouch at dueling.” He rolled up his sleeves again, and here he looked quiet. “When were you going to tell me he was seeing you?”

The way he said it, almost as if she had been hiding it purposefully from him. Well, he was right. “It’s just tutoring, Tybalt. Arden suggested him.”

“You’re joking.” Tybalt began to laugh. “Professor Arden? That fool?”

“He is no fool.” She was even shocked he would even say that. “ He is a great wizard, an Animagus. Hell, he’s even of noble blood.” Though much fallen in decay, the Ardens were a well-known wizarding family.

“On his mother’s side, which doesn’t count. His surname isn’t even Arden, it’s some awful Muggle name. He changed it for obvious reasons.”

She suddenly felt very tired. “Why should that matter, Tybalt?”

“Because it always does,” he said. “No matter how we personally feel about it. And Montague knows it. His curse is proof of that.” And then, to her surprise, he took her hand in his. “I suppose there’s one good thing about being Sorted into Hufflepuff. You get a reprieve from all the madness. You don’t know the worse of it, and I’m glad for it.”

He was such a Gryffindor, she thought grudgingly as she took his hand in hers. Even when he tried his hardest to rebel, it came out. At heart, it lay in the willingness to fight for what one believed in. But something was missing, something Tybalt was not telling her…then again, these boys, they’ll duel over any little thing…

For two days Romeo didn’t contact her, either through Val or by other means. And so she assumed, heart slinking off in some private disappointed corner to mourn and salvage wounds, that their lessons were over. But then their Hufflepuff-Gryffindor DADA lesson rolled along.  
  


**_Patronus 2  
_ **

Ecstasy. Longing. Awe. Wonder. Tenderness. All of that and much more was what she felt for him, what grew inside her, greater than herself. It was the same volley of emotion that came over her even now, even when he looked impassive as the most beautifully-carved stone. But it wasn’t enough.

 _All right, Capulet?_ How was it that despite his flat, cool tone, that this casual greeting excited her more than thousands of Paris’ praise and blandishments? How pathetic was she?

“Miss Capulet, enunciate with confidence,” said Professor Escalus perfunctorily as shapeless ivory issued, cloud-like, from her holly wand. “Your diction is off—Mr. Montague, would you please stop clowning around with Miss Weasley!” For Benvolio had been conjuring bubbles at a scowling Laurence, who was rapidly signing. “Mr. Montague, you need to try as well.”

She didn’t know what possessed her to say it, but she did. “Good luck.”

He looked at her and it may have been a trick of the light, but his impassive mask seemed to break, and unidentifiable emotion struggled to rise, one that made her heart both constrict and swell. He raised his wand.

_“Expecto Patronum!”_

A silver stream similar to hers issued, but larger and more shapely—in fact, she could have sworn a kind of wing had formed, bright enough to catch the attention of the class.

“Very good, Montague,” said Professor Escalus crisply as Romeo lowered his wand and did not look at her again. “Look, class, how Mr. Montague has done it: An incorporeal one, but still effective. The Patronus Charm is extremely advanced magic, so for those who only managed a stream or cloud, good on you. Hopefully in the next few days we shall see some improvement...”

“Romeo.”

Before her courage failed her, before he left, before she lost him in the transition crowd, before she lost him for good. She never expected his given name would sound so good in her mouth. She knew she had succeeded when he turned around.

“Can we speak? In private?”

He stared at her for a long moment that she feared he would reject her.

“Have you gotten an invitation to the Slug Club tomorrow evening?” he finally asked.

How did he know about Slughorn’s attempts to recruit her? “Yes.”

“Meet me there, then, seven o’clock. I’ll requite you.”  
  


**_The Slug Club  
_ **

“Miss Capulet, at long last!” Slughorn, round and garrulous as ever, waving a ringed finger in joke admonishment. “I was beginning to think you have been avoiding me. I remember your first potion. Best Pepperup draught I’ve seen yet, and that is saying something! You’re the very picture of your mother, but as dab a hand in Potions as your father.”

“Thank you, sir,” she murmured, pinking in embarrassment.

This was the reason, she thought as she looked around Slughorn’s roomy office, with emerald hangings beneath ornate golden lamps, why she had stayed off from accepting Professor Slughorn’s invitations for so long. Without Paris, who had cozied up to Slughorn something awful, sending him bottles of mead and boxes of crystallized pineapple, and whose efforts had been rewarded with a nice entry Ministry position, the Slug Club parties had lost what little appeal it had for her.

“Have you met Celestina? Celestina Warbeck, you know, charming witch, she is tonight’s entertainment, though nearly melted a cauldron on her second year as I recall— _Mr. Escalus,_ what a lovely surprise!”

“How do, sir,” said Mercutio carelessly, cheery as usual, but with a rather strained smile. “Yes, I’ve decided to slug with the crème tonight. What can I say, can’t get enough of that oak matured mead.”

“A fellow after my own heart,” chortled Slughorn, the acquisitive gleam in his eye growing brighter. “And you have brought Mr. Montague and Miss Zabini! Excellent, excellent.”

Heart rising and sinking almost in tandem, a strange paradox, she saw Romeo, a vision in midnight blue dress robes with Rose Zabini, so resplendent in blue-green dress robes with silver crescent earrings that she felt embarrassed for her modest pale pink robes and her small crystal earrings.

“I remember your uncle, you know.” Slughorn had already turned back to Mercutio. “Solid potions maker, excellent at defensive charms. Pity he decided on an early retirement after his mishap last summer. Alas, Frederick. Young Alastor makes a good protégé, I hear, but it’s not the same…”

“Uncle says he plans only for a year, as a favor to Dumbledore, for the respect he has for him.”

“True, true…yes, Albus has had difficulty filling that position as of late, Merlin knows why. Galatea Merrythought taught the class for half a century and now in five years we’ve had five at once…strange business…”

Somehow she knew what to do. She moved along the crowd, resisting the urge to look at Romeo. Near the back stood a dazzling Celestina Warbeck, who was indeed sultrily crooning one of her WWN hits, a slow jazz ballad:

“ _That old black magic has me in its spell_

_That old black magic that you weave so well…”_

“You look exquisite.”

She jumped—strange, she hadn’t even heard him coming—traitor heart constricted at the handsome sight of him. Despite the ardor of his compliment, he looked impassive, carefully so. For some reason this above all provoked her; she slid her hand into his.

“Let’s dance,” she said.

She led him into the small dance floor, little more than swaying to the slow tempo, but even this innocent, socially approved contact was giving her ideas, and dangerous ones. He was still subdued, but at least that awful impassive expression had gone.

“You didn’t tell me to get my own partner as a cover,” she said, with a mental shake of her head.

“No, that wasn’t necessary.”

“And Rose is?” When he raised his eyebrows, she added hastily, “I mean, it’s not fair to her.”

“Oh, it’s more than fair, unless you’d consider me a better catch.” When she frowned, confused, he smiled slightly. “I let slip to Rose that Mercutio is Slughorn’s favorite and it might be worthwhile to butter him up. Zabini is not a prestigious name and Rose missed getting in on Slughorn’s good graces. Rose being Rose, she went above and beyond.”

Sure enough, Rose and Mercutio were in seemingly rapt conversation, the former tossing her silky braid flirtatiously over her shoulder.

“Unfortunately I didn’t tell her Mercutio would rather be eaten by the Giant Squid than hook up with an ex of mine,” said Romeo, not sounding sorry at all, watching her expression closely. “He’s going to make me pay for it, I know.”

And as if hearing this, Mercutio shot him a pointed glare, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like _Kill you_. In response Romeo raised a hand in a brief, friendly wave. At last she turned, smiling reluctantly.

“You seem to know each other well.”

“Since childhood, yeah, with Benvolio. I drive him crazy, he drives me crazy, but our friendship withstood our Sorting, so it must count for something. Slughorn has high hopes for him.”

“Didn’t Slughorn try to collect you?” She had never, in all her years at Hogwarts, sympathized so much with her old Potions professor. She would try to collect Romeo if she could.

“He has. But Slughorn hates controversy, and my family is nothing but. Mercutio, on the other hand, has been on his list since day one.”

She should be interested, she knew, or at least quicker to pick up on the unsaid. But in front of the exquisite feel of him, the seductive mystery of his scent, his burning look, all of this mystery faded into irrelevance faced with _his_ mystery.

“What happened?” she finally asked. “With Malfoy and Rosier?”

She almost regretted it when the air between them became tense. Almost as if reading her mind, Romeo suddenly leaned forward, grip tightening briefly.

“Nine o’clock, Astronomy Tower,” he said, in a low voice. “Take the sixth floor corridor to avoid Pringle. Leave about a quarter till. I’ll follow.”

And without waiting for a response, he let go of her and left her. His burning look was gone. He left the floor, left her skin tingling just as Warbeck finished her last sultry verse.

“ _What a spin! Loving the spin that I’m in,_

 _Under that old black magic called love…_ ”  
  


**_Astronomy  
_ **

She no longer wondered why it had been necessary to attend Slughorn’s party—the good cover—but how he knew how to avoid the castle’s unctuous, whip-happy caretaker, she could only conjecture. Breaking curfew was a tall order for her; she had never done so, in all her years at Hogwarts. But she did it, no less because she needed to see him. She needed to know the truth of what happened.

The Astronomy classroom looked eerie at night, but the sight of his form bathed in moonlight, staring out of the window, took her breath away. She approached him.

“What happened, Romeo?”

“Didn’t your cousin tell you?” 

Tybalt’s stiff shoulders, that far-off gaze. The last thing she wanted was to revisit that conversation. “I want to hear your side too.”

“It was nothing,” he said dully. “Rosier and Malfoy were spewing their hate, Mercutio got cheeky, and then Tybalt tried to break it all up. He wanted to handle us alone, I think.”

“What did they say?”

“The usual vitriol. Half-blood, blood traitor, filth, Muggle-lover, all that tosh.” A long pause. “They even mentioned you.”

Her heart sank like a stone. It hadn’t been just Tybalt after all. “You mean they knew about the tutoring.”

“Of course they did,” he said and to her surprise there was more than a hint of uncharacteristic bitterness. “Half-blood traitors tainting their precious pureblood princesses with their presence will always be their Point Me, after all. There’s a Trace on it by this point.”

She had never seen him like this before, so down and brooding. “I’m no princess.”

“True,” he said quietly, with a kind of soft despair and growing, throaty vehemency that took her aback. “You’re much more than that. In your mien, your air. Your grace, your beauty. In everything you are and you do, everything you are. You’re the beauty worth dying for.”

She was trembling. “Romeo—”

“When I was in the hospital wing, I realized that however much I hurt, it was much less than the pain of your rejection, of your disdain. And also that Tybalt had been right about me all along.”

It was a dream, she thought hazily as he moved closer, so close she could touch him on tiptoe, had to be.

“What did Tybalt say to you?” she whispered.

“That I was unworthy even to touch you,” he said quietly. “That I, half blood that I am, my touch would profane you a thousand times. And I would do it.”

She could not breathe, could not think. All around her and inside of her was the delicious, familiar scent of him, and only him, like a wildfire in the night. He took her hands in his, but gingerly.

“Will you forgive me someday? Forgive the sin of touching you?” But he didn’t look repentant—on the contrary, he was blazing fiercer than ever.  
  


**_Profane  
_ **

The language of purity, how evocative and powerful it could be. Before she had only ever had heard it been used for hate and prejudice, the unity and solidarity of tribalism—pureblood, Mudblood, clean, dirty. She hadn’t realized how rooted those ideas were until Romeo’s soft but firm lips on hers, opened a portal, awakening at his touch. If this was defilement, she never wanted to be pure. If this was profane, holy ceased to have any meaning for her.

If this was dark, cruel, wrong, then it would be all her light, her good. Her right.

“Come with me,” he murmured against her lips, grasping her hand in sudden excitement.

“Yes.” Anywhere in the world.  
  
  


**_Amortentia  
  
_ **

“Anywhere” turned out to be an actual room on the seventh floor. It looked very much like the Gryffindor common room except in varying hues of purple and lilac.

“Room of Requirement,” he explained briefly, his air crackling with excitement. “Mercutio, Benvolio, and I discovered it our fourth year. We were hiding from Pringle after Mercutio released pixies in the fourth floor corridor. Mercutio still got the marks, but it was worth it.”

It was a feat of magical ingenuity the likes she had never seen: A room that would come into being strictly on the need of the recipient, despite time and limitation, the spells, enchantments, charms that went into this marvel, and Romeo was taking off his scarf and unbuttoning his uniform and suddenly none of that mattered.

“Juliette,” he said huskily, and the sound of her name nearly undid her. To her surprise, however, he only sank beside her on the couch, cupping her cheek without another word. For a moment they stayed so, caressing each other. But then he leaned toward her, and the realization hit her.

“Amortentia.”

He paused. “What?”

“Your scent. You smell like Amortentia.” She remembered her first lesson with Slughorn had begun with the identification of various potions, including Amortentia. The fumes had filled her with a kind of liquid courage, like imbibing spirits. How could she forgotten it before? “Cinnamon, incense, lilac, and...firewhisky? I never thought—it’s your scent exactly.” No wonder. Paris had smelled a little like coffee, which had piqued her, but it had not been at all the same.

He lifted his head and her breath caught; his look was positively blazing. “You too, then.”

 _Too_? But before she could bid him explain, he buried his long nose in her hair, her ear.

“Jasmine,” he finally murmured. “Honeysuckle. Some kind of fruit—cherry, I think. And something else I could never get...incense, you said? It’s gorgeous.”

She couldn’t stop blushing, and not just because of his words. “Oh, stop.”

“It’s true. For a moment there I thought—” He cut off.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Now she was worried. “Tell me.”

At last he gave a sheepish shrug. “It technically wouldn’t be the first time a girl would try to slip me a love potion. It began fifth year, but sixth year was the worst.”

She could not believe her ears. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I were.” As she struggled to hide her jealous pangs, his embrace around her tightened. “I never thought I’d find a girl with the exact same scent. Amortentia...I thought it was just an artificial amalgamation, Slughorn hinted as much. And then you came in and for a moment I thought either the girls had gotten too clever with the love potions or...”

A walking love potion. Angelica really deserved better Divination marks. “You thought I was dousing you with love potion all this time?”

She felt him shrug. “No, I know love potions don’t work that way. But even so, I don’t mind. You could douse me with anything anytime.” He paused when she did not reply. “Juliette?”

But for once she wasn’t interested in talking. Not when she could be taking him at his word. “Kiss me.”

Rich, deep-flowing, intoxicating. It was the scent of love.  
  


**Easy**  
  


This sort of love should not have come easy. Even in the best of times, when the tensions of ancient divisions eased and life was allowed to develop its course, love would always be entangled with difficulty, surrounded by chaos, swallowed up by want. But beneath his burning touch, the warm, delicious feel of him, none of it mattered—not their status, not family, not politics, not anything. Right and wrong ceased to matter, if they ever did, lost to the sea of ecstasy.

This sweet-flowing honey, how could it be stemmed? Or else she’d surfeit with it, with the glory of him, if themselves—and so lose herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys don't mind the length of these; believe me, it works out better in four equal parts. I've seen some Hufflepuff Romeo and Ravenclaw Juliette headcanons on Tumblr, but I really can't countenance them. I feel a little more insecure about Slytherin!Mercutio and Gryffindor!Tybalt, though; I guess just love irony and parallelism more. YMMV. 
> 
> The whole Juliette being at Transfiguration but good at Charms and Romeo being good at Transfiguration but not so much in Charms is taken wholesale from old Jily Marauder fics and fanon based on Ollivander's descriptions of their wands (James', good for Transfiguration, Lily's, good for Charms). Since that is the HP universe's closest thing to a dream couple, I thought it'd be a nice reference. Also, it does make some sense vis-a-vis their personalities. 
> 
> Also fun fact: Montague is a legit surname in the HP universe too (Warren Montague, Slytherin, who gets stuck in the Vanishing Cabinet and gives Malfoy the idea of fixing it in book 6). Since the name doesn't pop up much in the family trees of other prominent pureblood families, though, it may not have been exclusively pureblood or Slytherin. I'm sensing more of a Potter/Weasley vibe. 
> 
> Anyhoo, give kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc.


	2. Part 1: Incentive...Sacrifice

**_Incentive  
  
_ **

Conjuring lessons continued—Professor Arden was counting on her to raise her marks, after all—but with a difference or two.

“ _Incendio_ , Juliette, with a diagonal movement. And a side flick.”

“I’m trying.” It was simple as Conjurings went. How could this give her so much trouble? But inside she was as fiery as a wet noodle, mushy. And the reason why was lying on the Requirement couch, draped with the careless grace of a poem.

“You need a little will, I think.” 

“I could say the same thing about you and your Summoning. Now _that_ is based on will.” _Accio Pillow_! she said in her mind and the pillow jumped obediently from the sofa to her hand and she held it closely against her chest.

“Of course you make it look so easy.” He sighed before raising his wand and made the same movement. The pillow shuddered a bit, but otherwise stayed against her.

“Oh, you weren’t even trying.” But the beautiful view of him outstretched was giving her ideas, mischievous ones. “I’ll tell you what. You Summon this pillow, and I’ll...give you a kiss.”

She bit back a smile when he visibly perked up. “We’re talking incentive now?”

“Hmm-mm.”

But he leaned back again. “Oh, but we can do better than a kiss, I think.”

“We can but we won’t,” she said pointedly. Someone had to set limits, after all. “One kiss, no more.”

To her surprise, he sat up and stretched a little, seemingly considering her offer.

“Is the duration—the location—of this kiss up for negotiation?” he finally asked.

And there it was. “No, it's not, and would you behave?”

“I’m just saying they could. At least for you.”

“What do you mean?”

He stood up. “Easy. I do a proper Summoning and you a proper _Incendio_. Then I’ll give _you_ a kiss.”

A sweet offer, but now that the shoe was on the other foot, she finally understood the lameness of her original offer. Her Romeo’s kisses were beautiful, but he gave them as freely as she did. And they tended to inspire a lot more than just kissing. “Just a kiss?”

“Hmm-mmm.” He stood. “One kiss...anywhere you like. And however long you like.”

And before his glittering gaze and her growing flush, she saw for a brief moment the tantalizing vision his words suggested, like a flash and heat of golden fire.

“You’d have to Summon something first,” she said, shaking her head to clear it.

Without another word, to her palpitating heart, he raised his wand at her, this time with the proper form and posture, intense and concentrated.

“ _Accio Pillow_!”

It didn’t matter how tightly she held on to it. The pillow shot unhesitatingly toward him like a suicidal lover. As he grasped it, she had to wonder, for the umpteenth time, what her sweet love would accomplish faced with enough motivation. And incentive. 

"Your turn," he said.

Well, she shouldn't judge, she thought as she raised her wand. She was in many ways the same.

“Excellent wandwork, Miss Capulet!” Professor Arden next class, his open face delighted at the sight. “Look here, class, Miss Capulet’s powerful _Incendio_. Well done. Ten points to Hufflepuff.”   
  
  


**_Kill  
  
_ **

But the world always finds ways to kill your joy, didn’t it? It’s never just satisfied with simple interdicts, is it?

“Merlin’s beard.” Angelica had taken up _The Daily Prophet_ with shaking fingers.

“Anyone we know?” Two months in, and the formula was already well set in by this point. Disappearances, Muggle-baiting, Squid riots…even the occasional unsolved murder…

“No—I mean—it’s your father, Juliette. Not dead, no,” she added hastily at the look at her face. “But look.”

It was her father, all right, in a group picture among the others at the Wizengamot, looking grim. Nestled between a new agreement between the Squid riot leaders and Minister Jenkins, there was the (misleadingly) innocuous headline _NEW FUNDING BILL CHALLENGED._

“ _‘The new controversial budget measure introduced by Messrs. Nott, Malfoy, Capulet, and Avery has stalled in the Wizengamot due insufficient funding for Muggle Liaison Office. These critics have argued that defunding Muggle Liaison in a period increased attacks against Muggles and Muggleborns is nothing short of “perverse.” Mr. Capulet defended the bill, pointing out that the new funding bill has generously allocated increased funding for Auror division to aid them in tamping down on dark wizard activity.’_ ” Angelica put the newspaper down. “Guess who is leading the opposition.”

She didn’t even have to. She knew it all along, the answer coming from deep inside her.

“Eleanora Montague! They’re in negotiations now. Tough as nails, that one. Your father must be so happy about that.”

Her father, she thought with a sinking feeling, as Angelica set the paper aside. He had never been one for politics; the Wizengamot position had been a sinecure. But now he was acting on his beliefs, choosing a side, and she couldn’t help but feel it was because of Mrs. Montague.

The Montagues, the Capulets. This feud that went beyond pureblood prejudice and Muggle oppression. It was all so strange and mysterious. And then there was her own knowledge, folded shamefully within her.

“If it makes you feel any better, one of my cousins was a follower of Grindelwald.” In a laughable turn of events, _Romeo_ , of all people, comforted her, caressing her. “Joined with some prat named Somerville and Rookwood and they became his closest followers. They were captured when Dumbledore defeated him.”

“I heard.” Despite Professor Binns’ attempts to deter even the most studious, she paid attention to History of Magic. “Is that why Slughorn didn’t take to you at first?”

“Yeah.” He gazed off into the distance. “It’s this Voldemort’s fault. He is just another Grindelwald, and yet people don’t see…”

And there it was: The name of the new cult leader, already well-known among them all, whose stance on eradicating Muggle-kind and preserving the wizard way of life had its adherents. And she had the misfortune to know it all too well. “Worse, I think.”

And he turned to her, surprised, she squared herself. It was time for the truth, even if it killed her to say it, even if it threatened this flowering bud of love between them. She took his lovely face in her hands. He closed his eyes at her touch; she should enjoy it, she knew. Soon he’ll be recoiling.

“My father knew Voldemort,” she said miserably and his eyes shot open. “From his school days. He actually visited us several times in the past few years. He came for tea last summer.”  
  
  


**_Riddle  
  
_ **

She had been five the first time she heard Riddle’s name in the parlor, though she hardly paid attention as she was playing with the children of her mother’s friend, Druella Black. Her mother always did love to reminisce, so while she played potions with Cissy Black, she and Druella fell back into their Hogwarts years.

“You remember Tom? Tom Riddle? So handsome, so talented. I wonder whatever happened to him. He isn’t at Borgin and Burkes, that’s for sure, Walburga told me.”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” asked Druella with relish as her daughters Andromeda and Bellatrix battled each other with toy wands. “He had been abroad for several years now. He’s returned to the country now.”

“No!”

“Yes, and not alone, though he goes by a different name now. And he did not come alone. Remember that Smith girl? Obsessed with him, used to follow him everywhere? _Well_ …”

But it wasn’t until her fifth year summer that this mysterious Riddle would appear. It was the evening at one of her father’s balls. She had been chatting with her cousins when their house elf Ama appeared.

“Missy Julie, Missy Julie, Master Capulet searches for you.”

She found her father entertaining a tall man in a dark cloak with finely cut features and an almost unnatural pallor, like wax. But it was his eyes that struck her—a burgundy, the color of blood.

“This must be your daughter, Sebastian.” The stranger’s voice was a little higher pitched than most male voices. “The likeness is uncanny.”

“Yes,” her father said, his discomfort suddenly lessening. “Juliette, this is my old friend To—oh, all right, Lord Voldemort, and his loyal servant.”

It was hard to know who was more eerie—the pale, aristocratic burgundy-eyed stranger or his assistant, a gaunt-looking blonde stared unblinkingly at her in frank appraisal.

“You’ve done well with Isabella Flint, I see,” noted Voldemort as she rose from her bow. “The likeness is good.”

“She is my only remaining daughter since Susan,” her father said and her heart caught at his throaty tenor. “Ten OWLs. A credit to her family. We hope to see her one day well matched.”

“It’s always heartening to witness the next generation of the race,” said Voldemort after a moment, “especially in these beleaguered times, so riddled with...mediocrity.”

She tensed. Of all the dog-whistle euphemisms for anti-Muggle prejudice, _mediocrity_ had always been her least favorite. There was so much to criticize the Ministry over, but their supposedly pro-Muggle stance was not one of them.

“Oh, don’t get me started,” her father said with a laugh, but he also looked a little uneasy, as if sensing this conversation was drifting towards troubled waters; he took a hasty draught of champagne. “It was a dark day when Leach took office…”

“Oh, I think this goes beyond just one Mudblood,” he said calmly. “It is a sickness, a slow draining of magic by those who would steal it…we have to be vigilant, Sebastian, even proactive. Sometimes it involves fighting fire with fire.”

Not quite on, she thought, seeing her father suddenly look uncomfortable. If there was any person less inclined to fight fire with fire, it was her father.

“Tom,” he said at last. “As much as I admire and sympathize with your cause...there was a reason why I did not go to your meetings in school—”

“—And yet inevitably you still helped me. Do not think I have forgotten those who help the Dark Lord. For Lord Voldemort always remembers, and always helps those who help him.” He neatly placed his glass on the table with long, spidery fingers that made chills dance down her spine. “I’m not asking for service or even investment, Sebastian, although I certainly wouldn’t refuse any coin of your fine coffers. Though speaking of your coffers…I have heard some misfortune surrounding your fortunes. Debts, loans.”

Her father’s hand over his glass tightened visibly. “We have all been through trying times. The Blacks, of course, they put up a good front, but all who know…I’m grateful to have assured my daughter and her family a future. But as the Ministry keeps on favoring outsiders and incompetents….”

“I’m not asking for much, Sebastian. Just for support when needed it. In exchange, all of my means are at your disposal. For my travels abroad have reaped good fruit…just say the word.”

 _No, Father_ , she remembered thinking as her father hesitated, her revulsion instant and implacable. _Just say it._ How come no one saw it, the creepiness?

“ _Tom_!” Her mother, with the best and worst timing as usual, swooping in. “Why, I never—and Cora Smith, it’s been ages!”

She jumped as the gaunt blonde, who had been so unnaturally still, suddenly beam at her mother. “Isabella!”

And that was how, in the way of things, despite her keen interest in her father’s and Riddle’s conversation, she was roped into a trinity with her mother and Cora Smith.

“…Juliette was actually Sorted there,” her mother was saying. “Ironic, isn’t it? You Helga’s heir and Sorted Slytherin, and our Juliette a Hufflepuff. I admit, it was disappointing, but on the other hand, there are tons of good noble families with members in Hufflepuff…”

“Yes,” said Smith, staring into her champagne glass. “My aunt was most displeased with my Sorting, I remember…in fact, I am no longer in the running…”

“How awful. How is your aunt, by the way?”

“Dead, many years ago,” said Smith and to Juliette’s incredulity she actually perked up, her tone brisker. “Murdered by the house elf.”

“No!”

“By accident, of course. Poor Hokey was devoted but she had gotten old…dotty, you know…after the funeral I went abroad where—” And here a look Juliette would only be able to identify later appeared on her face, a kind of joyful bliss “—I met him.”

“You met Tom abroad?”

“I met my lord,” said Smith simply.

If only she had known then what she had known now. But at that time she hadn’t recognized the look of quiet rapture on the older woman’s face.

“So you have been with him all this time?”

“Now, don’t be a gossip, Isa, I know you of old,” said Smith playfully. “My lord and I have more pressing matters to attend to. We seek the passion of idealism, youthful blood to invigorate the old cause. Much like your daughter, in fact. Ten OWLs, you said?”

And to her burning shame they turned to her.

“Well, Juliette?” asked her mother, looking an odd combination of amused, intrigued, and worried. “How stands your disposition to this cause?”

Fortunately she had learned the art of diplomacy at her mother’s knee. “My disposition bends only insofar as my good mother and father consent to it. No deeper.”

As she thought, her mother said “What a fair reply,” while Smith’s smile became a little fixed.

“Well, Juliette is still a little young,” her mpther said abruptly, turning to Smith. “After Hogwarts, perhaps, when she and Paris are better settled…you remember the Escaluses, right, Frederick Escalus? He is set to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts next year, it’s been so hard lately finding good people…”

But her father was less enthused than her mother about Voldemort’s cause, which settled matters to her secret relief. Still, her mother, sensing a ripe opportunity to work against the pro-Muggle bias of the Ministry, was not convinced.

“He is a genius, always was,” she’d later rave. “Top marks in his classes, OWLs, NEWTs—it was incredible. They say he was many years abroad in Albania. I would your father saw sense!”

Perhaps he did, for she saw more of this Voldemort, at teas and large gatherings, although he was referred to her traditional parents as Tom. Occasionally she even saw groups of robed men in masks enter one of the rooms, although she would never know what happened there—even if she tried, Ama would not allow her.

“Ama is not to let Missy Juliette in,” squeaked their house elf. “Ama is under orders, ma’am.”

Secrets, lies, interdicts. Tybalt’s alienation, his growing fascination with the Dark arts and discomfort with his house. And the _Daily Prophet_ disappearances and deaths that kept mounting, mysterious and deadly. She was no longer sure of her place, her ideals, the tenor of her family loyalty. And now Romeo Montague came in like a tidal wave, battering the dam of her defenses, endlessly forgiving even when she was no longer certain of her own innocence.

“Are you afraid?” he finally asked her.

“Of course, for you above all.” Suddenly the meaning of it all settled before her. She embraced him tightly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Never.” His arms tightened around her. “I’m not afraid. As long as I have you, I can face anything.”

“That is such a Gryffindor answer.”

“And you love it.” He paused at the look on her face. “What?”

“Nothing.” While she was on the confessing mood...“It’s just—I could have been in Gryffindor too, come to think about it.”

( _Like implacable steel to the touch,_ the Sorting Hat had whispered in her head. _There you’d flourish in the great potential you harbor, yet unrealized...there would you find your true destiny. It’s all here, in your head, like a flame inside you..._

But she had been a young, obedient eleven, and Tybalt’s Gryffindor Sorting—the coldly dry letters from her parents, Tybalt’s mother’s horrible, screeching Howler, the growing prickliness and irascibility, the tense winter holidays that attended it—had imprinted on her an aversion of deviance. It just wasn’t worth it.

 _Very well._ The hat’s tenor was audibly reluctant. _If you’re sure...then it must be Hufflepuff...)_

“Can you imagine that?” She felt suddenly embarrassed; she hadn’t actually told anyone that, not even Angelica, the typical Hufflepuff, or Laurence. “Me, a Gryffindor. But now I’m thinking...maybe it had known all along. We could have met much sooner...”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he did something unexpected, beautiful, thrilling: He took off his red-good scarf and placed it around her—Merlin, it even smelled like him, delicious—and the look he gave her now made her heart soar, like a bird on the wing.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Perfect.”  
  
  


**_Arden  
  
_ **

Yet outside the bubble of their own beauty, ugliness continued unabated. 

“No matter, no matter,” said Professor Arden calmly amid gasps and stares at the magicked _SQUIB LOVER_ and _GO HOME HALF BLOOD_ signs on the blackboard, flashing several warning colors. “Needless to say, when I find the jesters who did this, they will have a nice, long chat with their Heads of Houses, rest assured.”

So even a teacher was not exempt from the chaos of hate. It disturbed her more than she thought possible; she had great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. She had to do something.

“Professor, I can try to charm them down...”

“You’re very kind, Miss Capulet,” said Arden. “But Permanent Sticking Charms are quite advanced magic...in fact, come to think of it, it may just be better if I don’t remove them just yet...”

He gave a hopeful flick of his wand and the signs’ words morphed to _SQUIB LOVE_ and _GO HALF BLOOD_.

“Much better,” said Arden more cheerily as she stifled her giggles. “And—ah, Mr. Montague, just in time. Like you my modifications?”

“Nice, sir,” he said, blinking in a kind of pleased surprise as her heart did a tap dance. “Er—I heard you were vandalized.”

“Oh, it’s nothing a little levity can’t cure,” said Arden serenely. “Comedy is one of the best weapons for ignorance, the mother of all prejudice, remember that. Oh, yes, much better,” he said with satisfaction as they laughed, adding candy-colored hearts with lace fringe in the new _SQUIB LOVE_ sign. 

“Why Squib lover, though?” asked Romeo, sobering. “And a half blood?”

“Good question, Mr. Montague,” said Professor Arden in the same tone as he did in Transfiguration class. “Well, the simplest answer would be that because both are true. Oh yes,” he said serenely at their starts, taking their confusion as skepticism. “I'm half-blood. I’m related to the great Ardens through my mother’s line. Pureblood supremacists to the last. My cousin John Somerville had tried to rally Grindelwald’s old followers for one last overthrow. Charming lot.”

“Somerville’s your _cousin_?”

Professor Arden nodded knowingly. “Yes. I recognized Montague as well. Small world. I’m not at all proud of it, but what with my history working under the Leach administration, I thought it best to hide my Muggle surname to avoid the backlash, and well—” He gestured toward the now winking signs. “You can see how well that worked out.”

“So your father is a Muggle too?” Romeo had sank down on top of one of desks, uncharacteristically rapt.

“Muggleborn. My mother was nigh disowned when she married my father—fortunately my grandfather was supportive, knew my father for years. He was at least educated here at Hogwarts, which made my choice in partner so much more disappointing.”

When they both looked confused, he smiled, if a little grimly.

“I might as well tell you now, since you’re inevitably going to hear this from others,” he said, and then sighed. “My wife is a Squib.”

 _Squib lover._ It was paradoxical, and something even she did not understand completely, but Squid riots or no, this was unequivocally worse than if he had married a Muggle. Wizards rarely if ever married Squibs—most families preferred to raise their children in the Muggle world, thinking it less cruel that way. Even Muggleborns were more common.

“How?” she managed. “Does she—I mean—”

“Know? Yes, in fine. Although she was raised in the Muggle world, some of her kin attended Hogwarts or were homeschooled. I actually went into publishing at Flourish and Blotts with her cousin. We met at his Midlands home.” His tone became wistful. “Fresh out of Hogwarts. I had no chance. It was as if time had stopped, and nothing else mattered...”

As if her senses had become more acute, she felt every inch of Romeo, the rhythm of his breathing, the coiled heat of longing between them. She dared not glance at him. She was brought back to earth by Arden’s soft voice.

“I actually thought she was Muggle at first. Even went to the Muggle Liaison office, see what could be done. If not, well, what was the International Statute of Secrecy compared to true love? I remember the day when I finally told her. She just looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Oh, I knew that already, you fool,’ and then kissed me and told me to feed Susanna. We’ve been together ever since.”

Could it be possible, she thought, heart warming in hope as her professor looked wistful, that such happy endings existed for couples with so high a barrier between them? She didn’t dare look at Romeo for fear of betrayal.

“What’s it like, sir, being with a Squib?” asked Romeo tentatively. “If you don’t mind my asking?”

“It has its advantages,” said Professor Arden with a twinkle in his eye. “My wife definitely appreciates it. First time I _Evanescoed_ the dishes, we conceived the twins.”

That went from profoundly moving to too-much-information. Was this typical of Professor Arden? “Congratulations, sir...?”

“I was very fortunate,” he said, sobering. “I knew Minerva and her...situation. Love, always the most powerful and dangerous of magics. And like most magic, it takes time, effort, and the discipline to realize the vision, see it come to fruition. It’s not easy, youths—it’s a hard doctrine, a world-without-end. For young people, it can carry you away...make you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do...”

That expression in his eyes, she thought as she and Romeo looked away. It looked all too knowing.

“But enough on me,” said Arden, more cheerily. “Goodness, I don’t even like to talk about me. How is the tutoring going?”

“Well,” Romeo said hastily, and she nodded. “Juliette is a quick learner.”

“Well, Miss Capulet has certainly improved on her marks,” said Professor Arden, and the glitter in his eyes definitely looked knowing. “It seems you have been satisfied with Mr. Montague so far. Well, I must prepare for next class. Be well, you two, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

Why did he have to phrase it in those words exactly, why did he have to look at them both, as if he was looking through them or even reading their mind? Surely they weren’t that obvious?

“Did you know all that about Arden?”

“No, just the half-blood,” said Romeo, frowning thoughtfully. “Although I could have gotten the Somerville connection. That isn’t so secret.”

“I meant his wife. Merlin, no wonder the Slytherins dislike him. I never would have believed it of him. It’s like, I don’t know, Dumbledore having a secret, torrid affair.”

“Mercutio once told me a rumor that he used to sneak into the Forbidden Forest and capture salamanders as a dare with some friends,” he said albeit vaguely, winding a hand around her waist. “So I wouldn’t write off Dumbledore’s torrid affair quite yet. Speaking of torrid affairs...”

“My falcon, not _here_ , what if we’re seen?”

“It’s a free period. Empty class.”

“Arden will know.”

“Mr. I-Married-A-Squib-At-Eighteen, Mr. What’s-the-International-Statute-of-Secrecy-to-True-Love? He’d probably think we’re not adventurous enough.”

“I think we are as it is.” If the coursing blood in her veins were any indication.

“Let’s be adventurous now, then.”

But then they heard glass smashing outside and a familiar cackling. They froze.

“Peeves,” he breathed.

“McGonagall’s storage closet.” She grabbed his hand. “Quickly!”  
  
  


**_Closet  
  
_ **

No sooner had they filed into the cupboard and closed the door than she understood this to be the worst idea she’d ever had.

“This is the best idea you’ve ever had.” In the dark Romeo’s disembodied murmur felt as loud as a gunshot.

“Not so loud.” She could still hear Peeves singing lewd verses; there were ripping sounds. “ _Colloportus_. There—hopefully Peeves won’t be able to enter.”

For a moment they stood there, and if she thought it was torture merely standing a foot from him in broad daylight, it was nothing to what she felt being near his presence, warm like a Patronus, at the sound of his shallow breaths. The temptation to touch, explore, never pricked her as urgently as it did now.

No, she could not hear him and let her break her fragile control. “It’s dark in here.”

“We should do a _Lumos_ , right?”

Would it make it worse? Better? “Right.”

But he didn’t utter the incantation, nor did she feel any movement from him to raise his wand, and neither did she. She realized, like a sixth sense, like a voice within her, that light was the last thing she wanted or needed. Light meant Peeves or Pringle or their professors and classmates, and then beyond to their families, the world. Light meant the end of this connection between them, growing like a pressure point at the temple. The memory of the kiss Romeo had given her as a reward returned with all the force of a battering ram.

“Romeo,” she breathed. “I—”

But she didn’t know what she wanted to say nor did she care because at that moment she felt his kiss on her lips and soon they were kissing as never before, if they would never stop, and she was touching him in ways she would never have dared and only thought on only at night, in shameless need, and he was touching her too with a kind of unrestrained boldness that made the primal part of her thrill. They told each other wild, fantastical things. Their kisses were no longer so sweet. For some moments all she wanted was to bring him as close as possible to her. And then, for the first time ever, something that shocked her, Romeo stilled.

“ _Lumos_.”

Such was the force of the incantation that the fallen sycamore wand ignited, and the sight of his beauty broke through her love haze. She could spend hours alone gazing on that dear perfection he possessed, and for moments that was all she did, only scarcely cognizant that he did so as well.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“I...think I forgot.” His tone was unabashed with only a hint of sheepishness. He swept away a tress of her hair. “I suppose…I just wanted to see you.”

She took his hand and not for the first time ever she felt his love, like a blanket around her, as tangibly as her own blue flame inside. In response she kissed him, strong but brief.

“I think Peeves has gone,” she said, picking up her wand, and retying her hair. “We should go.”

Love is blind and best befits the dark.  
  
  


_**Dueling Club  
  
** _

As his wont, Professor Escalus was not satisfied with mere theory and defensive spells like Patronus Charms. It was time, he said, to put it all into practice.

“This club will help you develop your skills some more in as close a real life simulation as you can,” he said, standing on top of the raised platform in the classroom-now-turned dueling hall. “Mere theory is nothing without the practice, and the flesh and blood of true experience that attends it. Without true experience, your education is incomplete. Without true experience, you will never learn CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he suddenly shouted and they all jumped.

 _Please_ , she thought as Escalus continued. _If you can hear me...Merlin..._

“You will be put into pairs,” he said and her hopes sank. “The duel will end when you successfully disarm your opponent.”

For the first three rounds she was paired with Laurence, one with a Gryffindor, and another with Angelica. But that was the extent of her luck as Escalus called different students up to the platform for demonstrations.

“Capulet, Juliette, and Montague, Romeo.” 

There was definitely something in the stars, she thought as whispers filled the air, and as she turned to face her secret lover, that was out to get them. It was if they were wedded to calamity, always.

“Right,” said Professor Escalus curtly as they faced each other. “Wands raised, genuflect, ten paces. Use defensive spells with the intent to Disarm only. Go.”  
  
  


**_Duel  
  
_ **

There was nothing she wanted to do less in all her life, and judging by the burning look in his eyes, it was clear Romeo felt the same.

 _Disarm only_ , she told herself. _Make it quick._

It wasn’t quick.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Romeo reacted first, echoing her first instinct, and without thinking she reacted.

“ _Protego!_ ”

Back and forth in a volley, like second year dueling. It didn’t take long for her to realize that the spells she was casting were less powerful as they usually were, at least in the low-grade spells. Her _Protego_ was a thin bubble, her _Rictumsempra_ gave him only mild giggles that faded, and _Flipendo_ barely pushed him on the ground. Likewise Romeo’s _Tallantelegra_ only made her legs wobbly and unstable, his _Flipendo_ was easily blocked by a quick Shield Charm on her part _._ She could tell Romeo noticed the lack of power too; his eyebrows drew together in confusion.

“Is this a duel or a game of pass-the-Quaffle?” barked Professor Escalus as the classroom murmured in their boredom and annoyance. “Enough flirting, girls, get to it.”

And yet, at the same time, some of spells gained frightening power. Romeo’s Severing Charm gave her a cut to her shoulder, and her _Duro_ actually turned his legs to stone, freezing them in place. As Romeo quickly did the counterspell, she seized this chance to end this once and for all.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

“ _Impedimenta!_ ”

For the first time the red and blue streams met, crossed, blended together, pulsing violently, and the force nearly drove them back, drove their classmates and teacher back; they held tightly onto their shaking wands. The stream became a rich, deep purple and then a blinding ivory—the violent shaking stopped, although her holly still vibrated, the wood feverishly warm. It was frightening, yet not in a way that caused fear.

“Break the stream,” shouted Professor Escalus. “Break it!”

But it was surprisingly hard. It took all of her muscle strength, and his, to break the connection, and did not go quietly: There was a flash of white light, and when she looked down at her heated holly, she found smoke emitting from the tip.

“ _Finite Incatatem, Episkey_ ,” commanded Professor Escalus, and all spells lifted; the bleeding in her shoulder cleared. “Much better, but with room for improvement. Capulet, you relied too much on defensive spells, and you, Montague, on offensive. Now who’s next...”

But Escalus was not as sanguine as he looked, for he held them back after class. To their surprise, his voice was low and earnest.

“Capulet. Montague. Have you two dueled each other before today?”

“No,” they said nearly at the same time.

“As I thought,” said Professor Escalus grimly. “If you please, Professor Mortice?”

And so it was their ivory-clad Divination teacher, whose eerie grace instantly set her teeth on edge, stepped forward, and they jumped in surprise—where had she come from?—holding out her long, skeletal fingers to her. 

“Holly and unicorn, nine and a half inches.” Mortice’s voice was soft, deceptively so. “Constant, springy, but with real endurance and strength under pressure. Meet for those witches and witches on a quest or with a grand destiny.” 

She waved it and a few, grudging sparks emitted, crackling in the air like fire.

“Although testy under the rule of one whom it deems untrustworthy,” noted Mortice, eyes glittering in cold amusement, and she felt a fierce rush of an affection for her wand. She returned it to her and she took it, fighting the urge to clean it.

“And now,” she breathed. “Mr. Montague...”

As she turned her cold eyes on a stiff Romeo, she felt the irrational urge to block him from her view, protect him somehow. But why?

“Well met,” she said softly. “How’s Eleanora?”

“Fine,” said Romeo curtly, not meeting her eyes. Mortice mutely outstretched a hand and he gave his wand.

“Sycamore and dragon heartstring, twelve and a half inches.” Mortice’s tone no longer was soft; she sounded almost greedy. “A little more stubborn. Also a questing wand, almost single-minded in obsession. Not the most powerful of wands, but when challenged or under extreme pressure, it too can prove...formidable.”

And without looking away from him, she gave his wand a twirl. A handful of burgundy sparks, again like fire, erupted from the tip.

“And again, testy with those it deems untrustworthy,” she said quietly, and again she looked amused, as if enjoying a private joke. “Both make for very loyal wands.”

Was it her imagination or did Mortice’s long fingers linger lovingly on the wand as she returned the wand to Romeo? At last, she turned to Escalus and nodded.

“It’s as I thought,” she said. “Complimens.”

“I see.” Professor Escalus leaned back, grim. “I’m afraid you cannot be paired together, at least for dueling. It seems your wands are lovers.”

Ice gathered in her veins and she felt more than heard Romeo’s sharp intake of breath. “What do you mean?”

“Complimens,” said Mortice, “are wands with a high degree of compatibility with each other in terms of either wood or core. When forced to duel with each other, the two wands’ power is severely diminished in some spells and wildly strengthened in others. Much like brother wands with twin cores—although unlike brother wands, they are capable of inflicting damage. For these reasons, they are usually called, ah…”

“Wand lovers.” Realization was dawning in his face. “That’s where the saying comes from?”

She had heard it too, in family conversations, in Angelica’s _Witch Weekly_ pieces on finding true love, in newspapers and books. But she had never heard it used as an actual aspect of wandlore. Of course, in the quotidian sense, it meant—

“There need be, ah, no actual amorous relationship between the wizards or witches of the Complimens, of course,” said Professor Escalus, clearing his throat, uncharacteristically awkward for once. “This is strictly a part of wandlore only. Finding one’s wand Complimens is rare; most witches and wizards never do.”

“How come you hadn’t pick up on our Complimens before now?” Romeo asked Mortice, and to her surprise his tone had an uncharacteristic edge to it.

“Compatibility between wands is unpredictable, Mr. Montague,” said Mortice, jade eyes glittering in silent amusement. “It is not always a matter of the same wood or core. That said, holly and sycamore are among wand woods that are highly compatible. That much has always been known.”

Complimens, she thought, gazing at her warm holly. Even their wands had known, like an edict of destiny, the meaning they had for each other. As if she needed any more reasons to love him—or to stay away. With them, it was one and the same.

“I hurt you.” Later Romeo gingerly brushing at the sealed-up shoulder wound before pulling back, like a hot stove; his countenance had darkened further with the despair of self-hate.

“It’s nothing.” She had gotten worse injuries at Quidditch practice during her tomboy years playing against the Lestrange brothers. “I hurt you too.” Her Fire Spell, intended as a makeshift barrier, had been more powerful than she had foreseen; it brushed him and he had to counter with _Aguamenti_.

“Don’t change the subject.” He was silent for awhile, his fingertips wandering chastely over her neck; she closed a hand over his but loosely, so he could continue his explorations unimpeded and the delicious sensations could last longer.

“I don’t trust Mortice as far as I can throw her,” he said at last, quietly. “But she was telling the truth this time. I hated every moment of our duel and I could tell my wand did too. Casting felt so heavy, like dancing underwater. And even despite all that I hurt you.”

She had felt it too. She had never been so frustrated with her holly before—or so frustrated with herself. “Why was Mortice in charge of inspecting our wands?”

“She was a wandmaker, fought against Grindelwald during the war with Dumbledore,” he said heavily. “But as I take it, they’re not personal friends, just allies of convenience. Recently—” But then he stopped, his Adam’s apple bopping in a hard swallow. His hand dropped.

“What?”

“Can’t say,” he muttered. “Secret Keeper. Forgot about that. Anyway, they say she is the only one Voldemort truly fears, apart from Dumbledore. But I don’t care on which side she is on, she is...”

A shudder wrecked his body and the burning anger that she got at the sight of Mortice staring at him returned. She had stared at him he was some rich jewel she wanted to collect, returned in full force.

“The human equivalent of a dementor?”

Even she was surprised by this—her insults were usually so lame Angie would tease her something awful—but she felt heartened by Romeo’s laugh, and drawn into laughter herself.

“Yes, exactly,” he said, sobering. “Whenever she’s near, I feel this—this coldness. This fear, like something bad is going to happen. Something awful.”

That ice. He had felt it too. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Voldemort showing up and _Avada_ -ing everything. Pringle being nice. Mercutio and Tybalt becoming best friends.” He sobered. “Losing you.”

This, she thought as she clung to him, already feeling better at his solid warmth, was the easiest part. “That will never happen. Our very wands are lovers, so to speak. It was to be.”

But as even this was too close a reminder of Divination, and therefore Mortice, they did not continue this train of thought. Instead, they took the easy route again, leaving behind Mortice: Entwining sweet on sweet. Only this time with the difference of a note of apology, shy, beseeching.  
  
  


**_Burn  
  
_ **

Not that she was so hung up about it, but the fact that she couldn’t acknowledge him publicly always burned her. Not in the least because others were never far behind.

“Hey, Montague.” Catriona McLaggen, that slag, had the two top buttons of her uniform open, leaning over the library tables. Gryffindor, it went without saying. “Hope I’m not too late and some witch hasn’t snatched you up.”

It was Hogsmeade weekend—nothing special, just another ordinary trip—but this year it felt as if the castle’s entire single female population, third year and up, had collectively made a beeline for the one boy whose dating prospects mattered to her. Juliette was not jealous; on the contrary, she felt a sort of kinship with these besotted and hopeful and even opportunistic girls. She knew she’d be the same if she ever plucked up the courage to ask.

At least, that was her feeling at the third girl who asked. By the sixth girl, who was a third year, and Cat McLaggen sauntering in, Madame Pince eyeing her suspiciously over her eyeglasses, she had abandoned her _Advanced Potion-Making_ textbook, an inexhaustive list of hexes and jinxes running in a loop through her mind. By the look and sound of her sweet love, he was too running out of patience.

“If you have heard _that_ , Cat,” he said, his tone weary, “then you must have heard that I already have a date.”

“Yes, that,” said Cat with a careless hand wave. “Well, I thought that was just an excuse to fend off amorous attentions.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m nothing if not receptive to amorous attentions,” he said significantly. “Provided that they come from the right girl.”

 _Fumunculus, Impedimenta, Flipendo_ , she thought at Cat’s silvery laugh and a flip of her burgundy hair, moving along, hidden among the shelves. The classic Confounding Charm. Even the Bat Bogey Hex had its attractions. It was perhaps too crude for her tastes, but anymore of that mermaid-style hair toss on McLaggen's part and it’d be just perfect.

“But really, Cat,” Romeo continued, breaking her reverie, “I am going with someone else.”

“All right, I’ll bite,” she said irrepressibly. “Who is it?”

But before Romeo could respond, there was the full-throated _slam_ of a school bag on the table, almost causing Cat to topple from the edge.

“Hey, gorgeous.” Angelica, blunt and outrageous as ever, gave Romeo a swift kiss on the cheek. “How’s it going, babe?” She turned to Cat, who had frozen in blank shock. “Hey—McLaggen, is it?”

“Cat, this is Angelica Prewett,” said Romeo, sounding relieved. “My Hogsmeade date.”

“And about time, too,” said Angelica, smiling blandly at a reddening redhead. “We were study partners, hit it off right away. Time slowing down, romantic music, the works. Isn’t that right, sweet?”

“I just asked her what the incantation for the Conjunctivitis Charm was” was Romeo’s modest response. 

True friendship, she thought with grateful warmth as Angelica held Romeo’s hand and Cat turned as red as her hair. There was nothing like it.  
  
  


**_Truth  
  
_ **

After swearing them to secrecy many times and even contemplating an Unbreakable Vow, she told Angelica. And Laurence, of course. It had been a long time coming, admittedly. There were just some things a girl could not keep to herself from her friends. They reacted predictably.

“Just _one_ little antidote, Juliette, I swear, if just to ease my mind—”

“For the last time, I’m not on a bloody love potion!”

 _How would you even know if you had?_ Laurence, the traitor, was also skeptical. _People under the influence love potions never believe they are under one._

“They never wonder about it either! Angie, you yourself said he was a walking talking love potion.”

“Well, maybe it’s a little more literal than a thought, who knows,” said Angelica darkly. “I know looks-wise, he doesn’t need it, but you know men...”

Terrible. “Romeo would never do that. Trust me. The only thing I’m intoxicated with is him.” The words had scarcely left her mouth before she deeply regretted them. “That came out wrong.”

“Or very right,” said Angelica, a wicked grin growing as Laurence blushed. “Is that how it is, then?”

She suddenly felt very weary. “All right, give me the antidote. If it will ease your mind, I’ll drink it.” The last thing she needed was Angelica going into this thinking Romeo used love potions. “Want to throw in a _Finite Incantatem_ in there too? Or shall I move on to my plan?”

“Plan? What plan?” Angelica paused, almost in dismay. “Oh, Merlin you’re _planning_ now? What has that boy done to you?”

Good question, she thought grimly. Everything, in short.

Her plan was modest: Hogwarts was in many ways a small castle, and the effort she and Romeo were going to hide their love was taking its toll. A wintry Hogsmeade trip was a delicious opportunity neither of them wanted to waste, but it had to be believable. That was where her loud, confident, sassy friend came in.

“So let me get this straight.” Angelica, for once, was hissing her incredulity. “You want me to be your secret boyfriend’s _beard_?”

“That is not the right term and you know it.” Not that _boyfriend_ was the right term for what Romeo meant to her, come to think of it. Or their relationship, which increasingly defied conventional classification. _All-in-all_ and _husband-friend_ were among her more casual titles. “More like my heart lover making a new friend in you.”

She didn’t like the unreadable look Angelica gave her then, nor Laurence.

“All right,” she said abruptly, surprising her and Laurence both. “I’ll do it. I’m going to regret this, but all for _love_ , I suppose...”

Love. She had been so careful not to say it aloud in front of her friends because Merlin knew that that would trigger an avalanche of drama and possibly antidote force-feeding. But of course it surfaced in her expressions, her tone, in everything she did. If keeping their love meant seeing him pantomime with Angelica, then so be it.  
  
  


_Sacrifice_   
  


Speaking of sacrifice. She just had to tempt the fates, didn’t she?

“I’m here now.” Paris, gleaming in his new emerald dress robes, took her bejeweled hand. “Whatever happens, you’ll still have me, and I promise you, Juliette, I’ll do better. I’ll be better.”

Ruses, theater, lies of omissions, she thought as she let her embrace her like a rag doll amid her family’s applause, amid her holiday rose dress robes and the parlor filled with enchanted boughs of holly and evergreen wreaths. Would they ever end?

“A month, and that's my final answer,” Paris was telling her father, but beaming so brightly the effect was lost. “Though I would it were tomorrow.”

“Not one day before two months, and that is the soonest I can manage on such short notice,” her father said in a half-exasperated way, but he looked too relieved and happy. “Come, some wine.”

“I still have school,” she heard herself say, with strength and determination, and they turned to her. A memory of clammy hands and cold paralysis rose, lingered; she firmly shoved it aside. “This attack was nothing. I plan to return to Hogwarts.”

“Let’s not talk about this now,” said her mother hastily when her father looked forbidding and even Paris' lips thinned, Conjuring a champagne bottle and glasses. “This is a day of celebration. First Bellatrix and now Juliette, such an honor…Champagne, my lord?”

“Of course.” Their guest, Voldemort, raised his flute with long, elegant fingers. “A toast to the new couple. Long may their love last and this alliance bear good fruit.”

 _Forgive me, my love_ , she thought, one hand clenching on Paris and the other on the potion phial hidden in her pocket. This pretense must go on a little longer, play their game. For in order to live, I have to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look me in the eye and tell me the Capulets wouldn't be at least low-key pureblood supremacists sympathizers. You know it in your heart it's true. Juliette's Hufflepuff Sorting has never been so fortuitous. Poor Tybalt has to overcompensate, though. Just embrace it, Tibby. 
> 
> Fun fact: Arden is indeed Shakespeare's mother's maiden name, and a great wizarding name it makes too. John Somerville was a (purported) real-life cousin of Shakespeare, married to one of the Park Hall Ardens (diehard Catholics, for context) and arrested and hung along with his father-in-law for plotting to kill Queen Elizabeth. Charming lot, indeed. Shakespeare was keen enough, however, to associate his lineage with them in his coat of arms application so he'd be granted the title of gentleman (his gentrification attempts period has such Slytherin vibes you wouldn't believe). Hence, Professor Arden. I thought of making Anne Hathaway a Muggle, but then I realized that though we have so many examples of witch-Muggle relations (and yeah, almost always witch-Muggle), we never have a canonical wizard-Squib pairing, which says a lot about its level of taboo. S&A's young courtship has always had vaguely R&J parallels, so in it goes. 
> 
> Had a lot of fun with RetJ's wands, special thanks to Pottermore and the wikis for that. I made up the whole Complimens thing, of course; if there is such a thing as twin cores and brother wands, then there should definitely be wand lovers and complimentary wands. The erotics of the HP universe should be brought out more, methinks. That Room of Requirement especially...;) Kudos, comments, bookmarks are appreciated.


	3. Part 2: End...Shrieking Shack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Romeo's POV.

**Part II**

**_End_ **

He never really given a thought as to how the end would be for him, should the worst come to pass. If he did, it was the vague but settled notion of going down fighting dark wizards, like the scum who killed his father. At worst, it would be Mortice, whose meager attempts to disguise her true intent he had easily seen through. But that was all before Juliette, before love came in like a fork of lightning and electrified his life, his entire being. Now there was only one way this could end, and he was staring at it, into the reptilian face of nightmare.

“You’re a fool, Montague,” said Voldemort quietly, hand tightening on his yew wand. “And you will lose everything, all to the caprice of your adolescent lust.”  
  
  


**_Duel  
_ **

Funny how it all began that way: A simple, trivial schoolboy duel.

“‘Cutio, Romeo!” Valentine had run up to him and Mercutio at the Great Hall during lunch, panting. “Benvolio—Crabbe, Goyle, Capulet—Transfiguration—”

What else could they have done? Mercutio had already taken out his wand, pausing only to turn to him.

“Back me up?”

As if he had to ask. Three on one, the cowards! And on Benvolio, of all people...

When they arrived, two sixth-year Gryffindors were on the ground, mushrooms sprouting in their faces. Gregory Goyle was unconscious, Stunned most likely, while his friend, Sampson Crabbe, must have been hit with a _Tarantellegra_ for he was on the ground, legs akimbo. This left the Capulet, a wild-haired blonde, dueling with Benvolio. Already a small crowd had gathered around them, egging them on.

“ _Petrificus Totalus_!” Mercutio yelled, but Capulet had seen them and quickly casted a _Protego_. There was a terrible pause.

“Graduated from bullying blood traitors to three on one, have you?” said Mercutio caustically. “Where’s your Gryffindor honor, cat?”

“Can’t face me without your two friends, can you?” he retorted, reddening in fury. “Where’s _your_ Slytherin honor, Escalus?”

He raised his wand again, and so did he, a full, robust Disarming spell forming. But then—

“ _Expelliarmus! Finite Incantatem_!”

They whirled around just as Crabbe and Goyle came to, groaning: Their new Transfiguration professor, short, wiry-haired, and balding, had approached, wand raised.

“Prefects, take Abram and Balthasar to the hospital wing,” he said, breathing hard. “Crabbe, Goyle, Capulet, Escalus, and Montague—my office, now!”  
  
  


**_Detention  
  
_ **

For all parties involved there was detention, including him and Benvolio, including docked points: Mercutio and Tybalt were fifty points each, Crabbe and Goyle as well, but Benvolio, of all people, had thirty points docked.

“As Head Boy, your cousin had the responsibility to report fights and disruptions to a professor,” said Professor Arden calmly in his office. “As it was, he retaliated and participated in said brawl.”

“He was trying to break them up!”

“And in so doing, only managed to make the situation worse.” When he stewed in the injustice of it all, he smiled grimly. “Such is the way of brawls, Mr. Montague. Good intentions seem to vanish in the haze of heat of the moment. Something I think happened to you as well.”

“I didn’t even cast a spell.” His tone inched towards an immature grumble, but he couldn’t help it. Another injustice.

“But you would have had Mr. Capulet retaliated, would you have not, as Mr. Escalus’ backup?” he asked shrewdly. “And it wasn’t the only time either, right? Perhaps with one Malfoy…”

His heart sank. A few days after the start-of-term Sorting ceremony, when the usual post-Sorting letters and disappointed Howlers were sent to first years, the most deranged addressed to one poor “Black, Sirius!”, cruelly Sorted into Gryffindor (“Thought I heard Aunt Walburga’s dulcet tones,” Mercutio had said cheerfully but sympathetically, joining their table, “poor coz, he’s getting it now. Remember when ‘Dromeda started dating Tonks?”), one of the Slytherin prefects, Lucius Malfoy, had docked points to first years Potter and that same Black for flicking bits of food at a greasy long-haired first year, throwing a sneering insult to his mother’s work with the Ministry and Mercutio, and next thing they knew…but how had Arden known that?

“I seem to recall Professor Lawrence telling me

he docked you and your cousin points for nearly fighting with Mr. Macnair over Snargaluff plants.”

It was stupid and childish, but, as it was true...“Macnair started it.”

“I’m sure he did,” he humored.

“If you knew what he had been saying—” He cut himself off; he had endured worse, he knew.

“I have a fairly good idea.” Professor Arden paused for a moment, before saying, briefly but pointedly, “I worked under Prime Minister Leach at one time, you know. You understand?”

He did. The first Muggleborn Minister. For all the progress, tolerance that reflected, it had also revealed a nasty underbelly of prejudice, a backlash so severe it erupted here, at Hogwarts. Some of his anger trickled out, deflated. “All right, fine. I did wrong. Just give me detention already.”

Arden seemed to hesitate for a sliver of a moment. “Not today, Mr. Montague.”

This he did not expect. “Aren’t you going to punish me?”

“Punish, yes,” he said, sighing. “But I’d like you to see it also an opportunity. Gain some perspective.”

He rose and dug through his desk drawers to retrieve a file, and despite the humiliation of being punished, he could not help but like Professor Arden regardless. He didn’t know exactly why, but he inspired confidence.

“Come by my office tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “I would offer you another way apart from lines, Pringle, and Muggle cleaning options, if you’re willing. Perhaps even better.”

Something better than lines, Pringle, and Muggle cleaning, he thought as Professor Arden’s dark eyes glittered, almost Dumbledore-esque, with silent humor. Well, this he had to see.  
  
  


**_Record  
  
_ **

“Now, let’s see.” Arden turned a leaf of parchment, short finger roving. “Ah, here it is. ‘Romeo Montague, 7th year Gryffindor. Solid grasp of theory, excellent wandwork, satisfactory conduct. _DO NOT PAIR WITH MERCUTIO ESCALUS OR BENVOLIO MONTAGUE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES._ ’ And in all capitals as well.” He put aside the parchment, looking highly amused as his face burned. “Why Minerva—McGonagall to you—insisted on my separating you from your bosom friends has never been so clear until this moment.”

McGonagall’s strict, exasperated face came to mind, bearing down on them, her lips thinly and suspiciously pursed. He felt flattered, embarrassed, fond. “Er...”

“Yet your professor has given you praise as well. E OWL. That is very good. We’re counting on that spellwork.”

And so he received his “detention”: Tutor a student struggling in Transfiguration for some weeks. He’ll receive a dollop of extra credit in exchange, and by the end of it Romeo felt certain he would have just have preferred Pringle and his nine-tails.

“Er, professor—”

“Yes?”

“No offense, but is this a joke?”

Professor Arden smiled again, which did not at all assure him. “I know it’s unorthodox, but a bit of responsibility wouldn’t go amiss. I hope you two may get along, I’ve asked her to come...she’s a Hufflepuff, so there should be no conflicts on that score...ah, Miss Capulet, good of you to join us.”  
  
  


**_She  
  
_ **

Perhaps he had internalized shame over his blood status after all, because in front of this blonde beauty with a typically pureblood name, just being close to her—pristine, graceful, the human embodiment of warmth and light—opened a door within him long closed, a dark, shameful corner now bathed in light. Arden was speaking, but his words were not distinguishable, as if underwater, and like an idiot he just kept nodding. And when she finally left, turned, her sunlight hair whipping behind her and leaving that tell-tale scent, the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

“Were you a Potion master at one point, sir?” So he asked, strained, because any explanation was better than the obvious. “Amortentia, specifically?”

“No, Mr. Montague,” his professor said, blinking. “I was good at it, though. Managed a good Draught of Living Death by pure luck. No Amortentia, though. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing no longer mattered.  
  
  


_**Confrontation** _

For a half-blood like himself, even venturing near a pureblood always had its consequence. 

“Change your tutoring partner.”

Late in the Gryffindor common room, him toiling over his NEWT-level coursework. This was the most inopportune time to be inopportuned, so of course he was inopportuned. Tybalt had spoken much lower than he expected, as if he too wished that this be kept between them.

“You should be with us anyway, cleaning classrooms the Muggle way. Arden is playing at favorites, it’s not fair.”

Putting aside the fact that he hadn’t even cast a spell…“It’s not my decision to make, Tybalt. If you’re really concerned, go to Arden.”

“Ask him to change.”

He was, he thought as he looked up at Tybalt, demonstrating unusual restraint, not at all characteristic of his burly House mate. But then, six years in the same house brought inevitable intimacy.

“Tybalt,” he said at last. “Arden will not agree. Especially for the reasons you gave. And I believe you know it too.”

Tybalt suddenly placed his palms flat on the common room table and leaned forward.

“I don’t expect a half blood like yourself to understand,” he said, still quietly matter-of-factly, but his clear eyes blazed. “But despite your mother’s attempts to sully it, you’re still a Montague, and so you should know what’s like to bear everything on your shoulders. Juliette is the only thing decent in my life and if these Knights of Walpurgis wannabes…or Death Eaters or whatever they are calling themselves these days find out that you are tutoring her...well, let’s just say what they did to Leach would be a Tickling Charm compared to what they’ll do to you.”

Strange, he thought as he looked into those familiar clear green eyes, how suddenly one’s perspective could change. “You know, Tybalt, I’m glad to hear that. For a moment I thought you were one of them.”

He regretted this when Tybalt’s composure broke and shot him a fiercely nasty look. “Never you fucking mind, Montague. Just keep away from my cousin. Be smart for once.”  
  
  


_**Smart  
  
** _

But of course he was not smart, not when it came to Juliette, and the consequence showed right on time, like clockwork.

“What’s the matter, Lucy?” Mercutio, ruthless and cutting in choler, in the urge for quarrel. “Don’t want to ruin those luscious locks of yours? Why don’t you go poison Jenkins, follow in Daddy’s footsteps—”

As Malfoy snarled out a hex, Rosier’s _Impedimenta_ nearly brushed his shoulder. The sheer hatred etched in his countenance took him aback.

“My aunt is a Capulet,” he said in a quiet snarl, raising his wand for what looked like a Severing Charm. “You dare approach my cousin, eh, you filthy half blood, as if she could ever go for your kind—”

His kind, as if he were in a different universe than her, as if he hadn’t been raised by a noble family! These Slytherins, never the smartest tools in the shed. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It didn’t mean that he had to take it every time.

“ _Stupefy_!” he commanded and it was so powerful Rosier fell like a puppet whose strings were cut off…

“Detention, all of you.” Professor Arden radiated a lordly, grim fury that made even the Slytherins shrink. “Fifty points deducted, from each of your houses.”

Was this the future, he thought, as Juliette's eyes shot him an accusatory _I-told-you-so-Montague_ glare from her cousin's face, that awaited him and Juliette? He could bear the taunts, even dish them back, that was nothing to him, but the thought of the likes of Rosier or Lestrange coming anywhere near Juliette made his stomach curdle. He knew what the Blacks had done to Andromeda when she married Tonks. He had no illusions as to what they could do to Juliette.

He could distance himself. End contact. Return to the circle of their different Houses and years. In a few months he would graduate and he would become a distant memory for Juliette. The thought of her moving on with another burned him in a kind of existential despair, but it was a pain he could bear.

Well. We all have moments of delusion, don't we?

"What happened, Romeo?"

It was as if she were her own countercurse, he thought as she gazed up at him in his arms on the dance floor, foiling and undoing his meager resolve, and showing it for the laughable folly it was. Nothing could compare to this enchantment. If Juliette accepted him, he was beyond punishment or points deducted by this point, beyond even shame. If Juliette wanted him, exchanged her heart with his, he was proof against anything.

“Profane me,” she gasped as he slipped off her yellow-black Hufflepuff scarf, the divan stretching out quietly before them in that wondrous way of magic. “My lord. My love.”

**_Beard_ **

This was, hands down, the weirdest thing he had ever done.

“Smile, Montague, or else people are going to think I bore you,” said Angelica with obvious relish. They were walking hand in hand down through Hogsmeade. “Then we’ll have to break up and well, that’ll just break my heart.”

So Juliette’s friend was obviously enjoying herself a little too much at his expense, but he had to admit there were definite advantages. For one thing, even the boldest girls that would normally approach him took one look at Angelica and were so confused and troubled they would back away, or else gape until they were safely past them. He wasn’t clear why they were so shocked—Angelica was far from the ugliest bird in school—but he had the feeling it was for the same reason Mercutio and Benvolio had alternated between bursts of wild laughter and increasingly incredulous gaping when he told them.

“Angelica...Prewett.” He could practically hear the gears of Mercutio’s mind turning between gasps of restrained hilarity. “Since when is... _Angelica Prewett_...your type?”

“Since when do I have a type?” He was seventeen, after all.

“Since ever” was Benvolio’s response.

“Yeah, and with such a range,” Mercutio said sardonically. “ _Witch Weekly_ -style cold-hearted pureblood bints or buttercups too pure for this world. So which one is Prewett?”

“Angelica’s fit.” Barely. That plump Prewett-Weasley build was never for him, but then again, assessing any girl that wasn’t Juliette felt outrageously difficult nowadays, like trying to see through dementor-induced fog.

“And sassy and crass and outspoken and a complete nutcase. You really didn’t have to rebound that hard, you know.” 

Oh hello, pot, have you met kettle? “Speaking of sassy and crass and outspoken and a complete nutcase...”

“Oi, _I’m_ witty and charmingly ribald. Prewett has about as grace and charm in her wit as a Lethifold. There’s a difference.”

But surprisingly enough, he did find Angelica charming in her own way, and yes, in ways that reminded him of Mercutio, especially the first time they met at the library. 

(“Hi. Angelica, right?”

“Oh, Merlin’s baggy bollocks,” was her response, patting her chest as if in assurance. “Face like that should carry a warning. Next time give me the heads up, alright? Make that rule number one.”

For there were rules, obviously, for this fake dating scheme. No kissing except on the cheek and no touching except to hold hands and only on occasions where a more convincing front was needed. There was no need for any more intimacy than strictly required—people’s imaginations were vivid enough as it was.

“Boundaries, very important in a relationship,” she had said briskly and he, remembering Juliette’s and his last time in the Room of Requirement, coughed, face burning. “Besides, I’m not that good an actress. You’re so lucky my cousins Gideon and Fabian have graduated already, or else they would have put you through the ringer. The things I do for this girl!”

It took a bit for the implications finally dawning on him, and he stumbled in defending himself. “Oh, no, I would never take advantage, definitely not—I’m not—Juliette is the one for me—”

And was surprised when Angelica let out a short laugh that was more of a cackle.

“The rules are for my benefit, Montague, not yours,” she finally clarified. “I don’t trust myself around gorgeous boys, and they by all accounts shouldn’t trust me. I promise to behave, don’t worry.”

Yeah, definitely Mercutio.)

“She’s fun,” he said at last with a shrug, sticking to the truth as much as able, “and she’s not so into me, which means less drama. Seriously,” he insisted at his friends’ raised eyebrows, “it’s more like she’s a friend. With obvious benefits.”

So to Hogsmeade, where the recently fallen snow made the village look and feel like a winter wonderland. Angelica played her part well, smiling and greeting other friends and praising him very openly, although to Romeo’s ears the casualness of her tone, bordering on indifference, made it pretty suspect. But as soon as they entered the Three Broomsticks and ordered butterbeers, to his great relief, Angelica let go of his hand and dropped the lovey-dovey act, leaning forward with businesslike air.

“All right, Montague,” she said. “In case we need a quick break up, I have some ideas. Cheating, for starters. It’d be believable since I’m easily jealous, and I actually really can’t stand cheaters. Simply check out some girl in front of me and I’m off. We may have to stage a fight at some point—”

“Angie.” This game was fun and all, but there was still one urgent question, or rather suspicion. “Why did you really agree to this in the first place?”

She sat up, frowning bemusedly. “Juliette wanted to disperse those cows and flirt-gills around you, didn’t she? Can’t say I really blame her, even I’m annoyed—”

“No, I know that. But I’m wondering why you personally agreed to this.”

Because despite Angelica’s candid appreciation of his looks, he could not fail to notice an extreme scrutiny on her part that went beyond aesthetics. At first he thought nothing of it—girls staring at him was a Monday for him by this point—but then certain things began to fall into place: Her casual questions about previous girlfriends, her opinions on his friends, the sudden laser-like scrutiny whenever a girl approached him that felt less like put-on jealousy and more along the lines of real concern.

“You’ve been sounding me out. Is that right?”

He knew he got her when she coughed into her butterbeer. “What—like _investigating_? Like you’re some sort of mystery?”

He couldn’t believe it. “You wanted to see if I would cheat on Juliette.”

She winced. “When you put it that way…You’re not angry?”

“No.” Actually, he didn’t know what to feel. So far annoyance, irritation, and curiosity were fighting for dominance. At last the latter won. “Why?”

Angelica sighed, played with her butterbeer cap. “What I wanted was to learn whether you truly loved Juliette or not.”

And in an instant all amusement drained from him. “You really doubt that?”

“What else, Montague?” When he continued to look stony, she sighed and ran a hand through her blonde hair. “Look, Juliette may be a formidable witch, but in love matters...she kept with poor Paris Escalus for two years, by Circe. You get it, right?”

And with that he was lost. “Er…”

“And now she’s met you, and it’s clear she feels especially deeply for you. Now you’re fit,” she said, so casually it took him a little aback, “though a little too pretty, it’s unnerving. Paris, now there was a catch. He would have been good for Juliette, but well, that’s all water under the bridge. Anyway, the point is...if you didn’t feel the same, or felt lightly about this, then it would devastate her and enrage me, and trust me, you don’t want me enraged. So consider this—” She gestured between them, “—a very fair warning.”

How to untangle this knot? The _she feels especially deeply for you_ kept ringing in his ear, overwhelming everything else. “You’re a very loyal friend.”

“Hufflepuff from the first minute.” She fell silent a moment, taping her nails on the oak table. “The Hat did very briefly contemplate putting me in Slytherin, though. Something about ‘ruthless practicality.’”

That wasn’t the only thing that was ruthless about her, he thought.

“I’d like to meet Juliette now,” he said at last.

“Yes,” she agreed amicably. She took a large swig of her butterbeer, finishing it with one gulp. “Let’s.”

* * *

In the outskirts of Hogsmeade, past High Street and over a small hill, they approached what looked like a house, brand new by the handsome look of it, cut off by a magical fence, Juliette was pacing, looking impatient—nervous? Amid the shiny albedo of the snow, turning to him, she looked radiant as a sun. He rushed uphill.

“Romeo,” she said, and his name spoken by those beautiful lips, almost sung, undid him and he kissed her and she kissed him and for several glorious moments the world disappeared, and it was just him and her, lost in her warm grace.

“Oi!” Angelica had arrived, huffing as she met them on the hill. “A little discretion, yeah?”

Laughing, he only wrapped an arm more firmly around her waist, fully intending to ignore her, but Juliette withdrew a little, flushed and smiling. She rested her head on his chest.

“There’s a house nearby,” she said, gazing up at him. “Only a couple months old. I think it may be an inn. So far it’s protected, but as it’s still absent, so…”

He was loving her more every second. “Is that so?”

“Hmm-mm. I even did a _Homenum Revelio_. No one’s there.” She paused. “What do you think?”

What else? “I think you really should have listened to the Sorting Hat the first time.”

Almost in tandem, they turned to Angelica, but she was already turning away with a dismissive wave of her mittened hand. “Three Broomsticks, an hour. Just...don’t do anything I would do.”

**_Shrieking Shack_  
  
  
**

The moment they stepped in the house, however, it was clear they had made an error. Teeth marks in the sofa and in the wooden legs of the chairs, long scratches on the floor. The windows were all firmly boarded. They whipped out their wands.

“Oh!” Juliette covered her mouth, then ran a hand over her hair. “Romeo…I think this is the Shack!”

“The what?”

She told him. Apparently screams and other horrible noises have issued from the building, to the shock and fear of the residents. It was rumored that the place was haunted.

“By what? Nearly Headless Nick?” But he felt uneasy; what could have made those marks? “A ghost cannot make those marks…”

They crept upstairs, keeping their wands out, tense, but found nothing. Upstairs was much cleaner, neater, the furniture intact, even flawless. It was still light enough that they didn’t need to use _Lumos_ ; they were well and truly alone.

“I suppose it must have been an animal who crept in,” said Juliette as they settled back down in the sofa. “Enchantments mostly take into account only humans…We really shouldn’t be here, we could be caught...”

“My witch, it was your idea.” Juliette’s Gryffindor moments were quickly becoming his favorite.

“That was before I knew there were actual protective spells and…whatever this is. We could have been caught.”

“Weak ones.” He had dealt most of them with a _Finite Incantatem_ and _Surgito_. “If they had been serious, they would have been stronger. Juliette.”

For some reason she closed her eyes briefly. “Alright, but just for awhile. And nothing too adventurous.”

They settled down, soon quite comfortable; as he was beginning to realize pleasantly as they caressed each other, they didn’t need much.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he finally gasped.

The next thing they knew, they had ventured into a bedroom with a bedside table, a magnificent four poster bed with burgundy hangings, and a chest.

“I wonder for what this house is meant to serve,” said Juliette vaguely, touching the handsome hangings. “I thought it’d be a tavern or inn, but it’s rather small...”

“Maybe it’s for a student,” he said vaguely, too taken by the lovely sight of Juliette sitting on the four poster to care.

“That can’t be, students never get separate lodgings.” She finally turned to look at him. Her face flushed. “Stop.”

“What?”

“Looking at me like that.” But then she paused, lips pursed. “What are you thinking?”

Plenty, over half of which not suitable to say in most any company. He voiced the least important of them, the least urgent, the least relevant. “So Paris Escalus, eh?”

To his surprise and curiosity, Juliette bristled.

“Angie,” she almost growled. “That loudmouth, I’m going to kill her.”

“Why?” He remembered Paris only as the supercilious Head Boy, the butt of Mercutio’s jokes about rule-loving older cousins and the lameness of prefects in general. “Did you fancy him?”

“Not like that.” Finally she sighed. “We were basically betrothed.”

Was that all? “You were in a pureblood alliance?” He nearly got the same with Enid Abbott, but fortunately she had gone for Alphard Longbottom instead.

“Hmm-mm. But I was just a kid and Paris was into his own group. It wasn’t until fifth year that he really started to notice me. Mother and Father were practically making plans—well, more Mother than Father. She would write me all sorts of letters about us and how great we would be together and to begin thinking of our futures. So when Paris asked me out on his last year…I decided to try it.”

Her voice was so small, he disliked it immensely. “So you went with him because your parents wanted you to?” He wasn’t being judgmental; he just wanted to make sure he understood her meaning.

“So much for ‘you would have done well in Gryffindor,’ right?” she said, with a bitter twist in her smile.

“You’re as good as in my book,” he said firmly. “So what changed, then?”

To his surprise, she visibly softened. “I saw you.”

For a wild moment, he thought she meant their tutoring for Professor Arden. But then he realized Paris would have already graduated by then. “You mean— _before_ Arden?”

She nodded. “At Hogsmeade, and then at the Great Hall. I was on a date with Paris at the Three Broomsticks, he was getting us drinks.” She stared at her twining fingers. “I mean, I suppose I always did know about you…heard talk about you, even spotted you on occasion from a distance. But in that moment when you walked in with your friends, I just...it was like the stars aligned. Something just clicked.”

So much time the could have had, so much time they had missed and could never get back again. She had seen him before. She had _seen_ him before. And he...

“Why didn’t you approach me?” He almost demanded it in his incredulity.

“And said what? ‘Hi, I’m Juliette. I’m a total stranger to you, but just say the word and I’ll follow you everywhere.’ You would have thought me mad.”

Perhaps it was still a little early, he thought, for her to know him and his notoriously poor impulse control. “I would have said the word. Absolutely.”

A flush overcame her, pleased, scandalized. “With Paris there?”

Oh yeah, that guy. “I would have asked you to ditch him. Politely, of course.”

“And I would have said that was ridiculous and out of the question. And then I would have gone with you anyway.” Her smile vanished. “It got me thinking, though. It was as if someone did a _Finite Incantatem_ on my illusions and I saw things clearly for the first time. How ruled I was by my parents’ expectations, a cage of my own design. And Paris. How I tried and failed to look past his arrogance and high-handedness...and that was his worse quality, the way he would take our relationship de facto, as though we were already husband and wife.”

Well, there went what little respect and sympathy he had for that guy. “But you did break up with him.”

She nodded. “He didn’t take me seriously at first. At last he assumed I just got cold feet and I just needed more time. It just proved to me that I did the right thing in the end.”

Well, this was interesting. Completely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, in the way Paris was, in the way the blood purity and family rivalry nonsense was, but still interesting. But there was only one thing that truly mattered to him.

“Do you love him?”

“No.”

“Good.”

This, he thought as they came together, was the stuff worth living and dying for, the kind of magic not taught in any class, that bound, summoned, compelled.

“I love you,” he whispered and felt a small sting when she stiffened. “Is it too early?”

“It is. Definitely.” But she arched closer, so close their lips brushed, their breaths mingled, and there was a glow about her brighter than any sun. “I love you too.”

After awhile, she whispered against his shoulder,“You seem different today. Calmer. Usually you’re so jittery, like any minute now you’re going to bolt.”

So had she picked up on that. Benvolio always complained how hard it was to find him when he went off during his melancholic moods. But with Juliette, that urge vanished. At the same time, being near her, it was as if all his nerves were on fire. “Sorry. I know I’m a spazz.”

“I like your nervous energy,” she said, and she blushed in surprise. “It...excites me.”

Speaking of excitement. “Oh, really?”

“Stop it, you know what I mean.” She laid on her back on the burgundy coverlet and it was such a lovely image, so tantalizing, that he had to distract himself.

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” she said slowly, plucking at his scarf. “That if it weren’t for the blood status and our parents’ political rivalry…that my parents would probably approve of us. Mother is very into names, she would have liked a Montague. It’s no Escalus, but…”

Dangerous, this hope, like a bubble growing in their chest. No wonder it slipped out, almost naturally. “We can always elope.”

“It will come to that, yes,” she answered vaguely, but then, as if finally hearing his words, she sat up, alert, all languidness gone. “Do you really mean it?”

“Of course.” If that was what she wanted, needed, he would do it. There was no one else for him. It would be the easiest thing he had ever done. “Marry me, Juliette.”

She gazed at him with those beautiful lake-like eyes of hers. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She gazed unseeingly at the burgundy coverlet. “I know you love me,” she said at last, slowly, “and I do too, so much.”

He thought of Angelica’s words. “Juliette, I swear—”

“No, don’t swear,” she said quickly, head snapping up. “That’ll make it worse. Besides, I believe you love me…now, at least.”

“Then?”

At last she looked up and she looked miserable. “I think there is going to be a war.”

Was it bad of him that he felt relieved? At least it wasn’t about any doubts about them on her part. “Yes, I think so, too.”

She gripped his shoulders, his arms. “These Death Eaters are dangerous. Today it’s Muggles and Muggleborns, tomorrow it’s half bloods, it’s blood traitors. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” he said, taking her face in his hands. “That’s why we should seize this chance for happiness before things get truly worse. I’m not going to let these Death Eater scum dictate our lives.”

Her hands entwined with his, expression soft. “I wish I had your bravery.”

“For you I’d brave anything.” She was at the heart of his courage. “Would you?”

He was satisfied when her eyes flashed. “Yes. Anything.” At last she took a breath. “I’ll marry you. Of course.” And she gave a delighted gasp as he kissed her. They tumbled together on the bed.

“When?” he managed.

“…I was about to say ‘after graduation,’ but then I realized I still have a year. Merlin, I wish could skip to my NEWTs already.”

“No, complete your year. I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever.”

She let her fingers trail ruefully down his arm. “A lot can happen in a year. You may yet change your mind, travel elsewhere. Meet others.”

“I don’t want to be with anyone but with you.” He was sinking, sinking into the honey warmth of her. “I belong here with you.”

An hour and a half later, when they finally left the shack and were walking uphill, their arms around each other, the wind had picked up, breaking the calm of the wintry afternoon, biting at the exposed inches of their raw flesh. A nervous air fell on Juliette then, her bright eyes looking around; he could not tear his gaze away from her.

“What time is it? Oh, we’re going to be so late for the carriages...”

“You were the one who wanted to stay longer.” Not that he made such an effort to convince her...

“Yes, and you put up such a fight,” she teased, as if reading his mind, before sighing. “Well, don’t heed me next time, especially when I’m with you...”

Then she froze. She grabbed his arm, suddenly pale, and he finally followed her gaze. Below in the valley of the village tendrils of smoke rose, a charred charcoal in the cool wintry air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm irrationally proud of making the Nurse a Prewett and La Muette a Weasley, you wouldn't believe. Gives me giggles every time. Ignore me, I'm such a nerd. Also...Gregory Goyle. Sampson Crabbe. I would say I'm sorry, but my fucks, alas...they are subterranean. :P
> 
> I did think about making Paris a Slytherin, but most iterations of the character have such AVPM!Cedric vibes like you won't believe. Only Hungarian Paris feels Slytherin (oh, god, Hungarian Paris...). 
> 
> Initially I had wanted to set the story in 1970 as a comfortable, pre-Marauder's date, but as I also wanted to introduce the Shrieking Shack, I couldn't justify having it be constructed a full six months plus before Lupin's entry at Hogwarts (Lupin explicitly states that it was built the year he came to Hogwarts). So a three-months-old Shack it is. Does kill the romantic mood somewhat, but it's RetJ. Being together in the midst of dark-ass shit is pretty much their expertise. Lupin will just have to make do with suspiciously rumbled sheets. Oh, my. :P Anyhoo, give kudos, bookmarks, comments!


	4. Part 2: Aftermath...Incarcerated

_**Aftermath** _

From the pitch of darkness, a light loomed, like a sunrise in midnight. It spoke to him, pleading, beseeching.

“Romeo...” A salty warmth on his cheek, his hands. “You’re awake, you’re alive.”

 _Alive_ , he thought but could not speak as the light buried her tear-stained face on his torso. The ice within him was slowly thawing, but everything was foggy. What had happened?

“Miss Capulet, once again, back to bed, you haven’t even had your chocolate yet—oh, Mr. Montague, you’re awake. Poppy, get the Honeydukes…”

The fog was lifting, and Juliette came into focus, her face pale. She looked as drawn and weak as he felt.

“Dumbledore is coming,” she whispered. She had not moved a muscle, but merely clutched his hand tighter. “You’re alive, you’re safe.”

“Miss Capulet!”

As the small hand reluctantly slipped from his, memories flooded him and he knew with sudden clarity where he was and what had happened. He grabbed her hand, sat up. His memories had finally arrived in a flood.

“Mr. Montague, no, you need to rest—”

“Dumbledore,” he managed. “We must see him.”  
  


**_Dementors  
  
_ **

“There has been an attack on Hogsmeade.” Professor Dumbledore in his airy, mysterious office, looking weary, air very grave, along with a pale Professor Arden, Professor Escalus in his Auror robes, Professor Lawrence, their Herbology professor, and—his heart sank—Mortice herself, unnaturally eerie as ever.

“There were no deaths, but there was extensive property damage along the north side of the village. The creatures—” And here his electric blue eyes flashed in rare disdain “—were stationed around the perimeter, but thanks to the quick thinking of a local bartender, they were held off from going into town. You two were the only ones who encountered them. I must ask you to tell us, to the best of your ability, what happened.”

It was coming together, a coherent if hazy picture, but the mention of their parents bid them pause. He would not compromise Juliette, and by the closed look on her face, neither did she. Again, with uncanny intuition, if reading their minds, Dumbledore leaned forward, peering at them through half-moon spectacles.

“I have contacted your parents, of course,” he said quietly. “That is unavoidable, you must understand. But they need only know what concerns them. I can protect you if need be. First, however, you must be completely honest with me. This attack was not a random one, nor would it be the first. We can deal with the rest later.”

Fawkes the phoenix gave a lowing, heartening cry, a one note song. He turned to look at Juliette and found acceptance, love, and reassurance in her eyes. He wished he could hold her, but not in this office.

“We were spending time together at the new shack,” he began, ignoring Professor Arden’s sharp inhale and Dumbledore’s flash of alarm, “when we saw it...”  
  
  


**_Dove and Nightingale  
  
_ **

Their mistake was in going down the hill, in seeking a way around the village and towards the gates. But as soon as they did that, a blanket of darkness fell that was clearly artificial, extinguishing the stars above. A coldness that had nothing to do with the weather creeped, one that furrowed deep within him. He could feel Juliette trembling beside him.

“De-dementors,” she gasped.

His limbs felt heavy, as if they were made of noodles, or as if the air had turned to viscous liquid. Memories flashed, thoughts intruded. His father’s closed casket— _half-blood scum_ — _Absolutely not, you’re too young_ —Mortice’s long corpse-like hands on his cheek, her breaths drawing goosebumps on his neck...

“N-no... _Expecto Patronum_!” 

But their silver hazes only flickered and died. One of them even brushed it off in a dismissive gesture. The darkness and dry rattling increased—more dementors appeared, swooping down around them.

 _I’ll be with Juliette_ , he thought desperately as he clung to her, one-arm around her, the other with his wand. _They won’t separate us_...

Clammy skeletal hands were leaning down, breaking them apart so easily, like a parent with unruly kids, like it is nothing...it was all over…he’ll never see Juliette again...

Juliette—

“ _EXPECTO PATRONUM!_ ”

Shrieks as the dementors scattered, and at last his vapor had developed into corporeal shape. The bird swooped down, bright and fierce. In its glow, his heart momentarily stopped when he saw Juliette lying on the ground.

“I’m all right, I’m all right,” she gasped as he almost hurt his knees sinking to her, embracing her tightly. Her eyes fell on his swooping Patronus, circling them in swift flight.

“A nightingale,” she whispered, reaching out toward it. “Beautiful.”

They hurried along, the nightingale leading them out of the dark.

“We should get to the castle.”

“Angelica—the others—”

“We’ll get help, get Dumbledore.” He wasn’t sure how to send a message via Patronus; it was a miracle enough just to have conjured it with a corporeal one and he wasn’t about to push his luck. He was afraid even to let go of Juliette.

But when they reached the gates, darkness fell again and his Patronus began to flicker. There was more flapping, more dry rattling—more had come.

“ _Expecto Patronum_!”

But something was very wrong. There were too many of them, obscuring the sky, the clouds, the stars. His nightingale flickered and died.

“No—Romeo—”

And with a cry she was gone, as if she never was there, and he was grasping thin air. And now he was hearing voices in his head, whispering in a familiar, cold voice...

 _Enviable_. Mortice’s voice was cold as ice, but as soft as a caress. _That I may not Kiss you, but that these creatures will_...

No, he could not lose Juliette...if he did, it was over.

_You can still be with her...just come to me and she will follow...just one little Kiss..._

Clammy skeletal hands at his chin and cheek, like a parody of a lover’s touch, tilting it back...and amid the roar of dementors, a voice, so familiar and yet strange...

“ _Expecto—Expecto Patronum_ — _EXPECTO PATRONUM_!”

And suddenly there was no more darkness, no more cold. It was a light that overwhelmed him, enveloped him, filled him with warmth. The cold voice in his head disappeared and all his memories came rushing back. Through his blurred vision, his slowing heart, the dove hovered, wings outstretched, brilliant, resplendent, and pure.

 _Juliette_ , he thought and then knew no more.  
  
  


_**After  
  
** _

A pregnant silence fell in the Dumbledore’s office only unbroken by the whirling instruments and the murmurs of the Hogwarts portraits; whether positive or negative Romeo did not know, nor care. Professor Arden was looking at them with an odd mixture of shrewdness, tenderness...sadness? Dumbledore, however, was staring at them intently over his clasped hands, and for a moment Romeo could have sworn he saw a quiet if unsurprised awe In his gaze. But as soon as this impression came it disappeared, and Dumbledore had turned to Escalus and Lawrence with renewed briskness.

“Frederick, John, contact Arabella and Mundungus,” he said. “Discreetly, of course.”

They nodded, though not before Escalus shot a charged look at Mortice. With a sweep of their cloaks they left. Dumbledore turned to Mortice and to their surprise his expression on his countenance was almost meek.

“Anne,” he said. “If you can…if you please…”

She did not reply except with a low bow, face impassive. She too left the office. Dumbledore sighed and looked down at them, as if continuing a conversation they had before.

“Extraordinary,” he finally muttered, half to himself. “Two corporeal Patronuses, and under such pressure...I will never doubt you again, Will.”

“Sometimes I do hate being right,” Professor Arden muttered faintly, though a little bemused. “I suppose this is what you must feel like on a daily basis.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” He turned to one of the portraits. “This changes everything. Everard, contact Minister Jenkins; there are Dementors out and about. Phineas, is Capulet House…?”

“They’re on their way,” said the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, lip curling grimly—and disapprovingly. “Though I must say, if my cousins ever knew about the half-blood blood traitor...”

“Please, professor,” he heard himself say hoarsely. “They must not know...They’ll tear us apart...”

Dumbledore gazed at them over his half-moon spectacles and not for the first time he felt he and Juliette were very small by comparison.

“Lies and deception feed on themselves,” he said quietly, “and weave a web too thick to remove. Love may be hidden, but you must beware of the costs, not only to your loved ones, but to yourselves. If need be, I can vouch for you; there is little your parents could do if I gave you my full support. But I’m afraid I can go no further than that.”

It was tempting, for sure, he thought as he exchanged looks with Juliette. But this would put Dumbledore and their parents in a power conflict too great for something so intimate and personal to them. In the end, it was up to him and Juliette to decide.

“Thank you, professor,” she said finally. “But we wish to keep it a secret a little while longer. We wish to tell our parents, and we will, but on our terms.”

“Very well,” said Dumbledore at last, sighing. “I will conceal, then, the best of you a little while longer.” He turned to Arden. “Will. It’s time.”

Professor Arden, looking the most serious than they ever saw him, nodded and with a sweep of his cloak left the office. Only minutes when he did so, it seemed, was there a knock on the door and at Dumbledore’s calm “Come in,” Mr. Capulet and his fair-haired wife swept in, pale-faced.

“Where is she? Oh Juliette!” cried her mother as she stood and her father pulled her into a tight embrace. “Are you all right?”

But Mr. Capulet was glaring directly at Dumbledore.

“What in blazes is going on, Dumbledore?” he hissed. “A Hogsmeade attack—dementors on the grounds—my own daughter a victim—”

“The raid was by known Death Eaters,” said Dumbledore calmly, but with an undercurrent of powerful firmness to make Capulet cut off. “Some of which were known to you, Sebastian. Lestrange, Rosier, Black. They meant to send a very clear message, I daresay.”

Capulet’s eyes were flashing with too-quick emotion. “My daughter—”

“—Acquitted herself very bravely in the face of danger by casting a Patronus Charm to save herself and a classmate. In fact, we ought to be discussing awards. Ah, Eleanora, good timing as usual.”

For in the Capulets’ wake, her mother had arrived, in deep midnight robes, rushing to him.

“I heard from Frederick,” she breathed. “My son—”

“There was a dementor attack,” said Dumbledore in a tone that made them all look up. “It seems Mr. Montague and Ms. Capulet were with Ms. Prewett and Mr. Escalus and in those crucial hours of the attack were separated. How the rogue dementors got to Hogsmeade is yet unsure, but rest assured they have dispersed.” His cold tone made it clear that he personally ensured it. “The Ministry has been contacted on this breach and an investigation is pending.”

He felt beyond grateful at his clever wording, grouping him and Juliette with Angelica and Mercutio and Benvolio.

“You may do as you will,” said Capulet in a hard tone, breathing hard. “But I am still not satisfied. I have withstood this—school’s falling standards and mediocrity for far too long, Dumbledore. My daughter was nearly Kissed under your protection. There is no remedy but to take my daughter out of Hogwarts.”

“No.”

For a wild moment he thought he had spoken aloud his heart’s immediate answer, but then he saw that Juliette had stood.

“I still have my sixth year, and my NEWTs,” she continued, stronger. “I can’t just lose my schooling on an incident—”

“Juliette Capulet, you were nearly Kissed,” hissed Mrs. Capulet. “This was no incident.”

“It was my fault for venturing outside of town. Put me in detention, dock points, but don’t take me out of Hogwarts.” She began to tremble. “It’s my second home.”

The Capulets did not seem to know what to make of this, alternatively pale and bristling. They turned to Dumbledore, then back to their daughter, then back again.

“It is not Hogwarts policy to withdraw students out in the middle of the school year,” said Dumbledore evenly. “Only in very extenuating circumstances. If you are truly concerned for Miss Capulet’s safety, however, arrangements can be made to take Miss Capulet home early for the holidays. Otherwise, rest assured Hogwarts remains one of the safest place for witches and wizards.”

“Dumbledore.” His mother spoke, firmly, and with a slight tremor. “I would also like to put my foot down. Particularly with regards to what we discussed earlier. I do not think it fitting nor proper, and now that my son has apparently gotten entangled with such a crowd—”

“ _Crowd_?” Mrs. Capulet’s voice inched up an octave. “When my daughter was nearly Kissed by dementors! How she was anywhere near your half blood, I don’t pretend to know—”

As the Capulets and his mother argued, their voices quickly becoming white noise, he could not take it anymore. He chanced a glance at Juliette, unshed tears swimming in her eyes.

 _I love you_ , her look said, and although they were only two feet apart, it already felt as if she were far away.  
  
  


**_Soul  
  
_ **

How could something like Hogwarts, of such grand majesty, its infinite variety of magic, its comforting rhythms, feel so empty and lifeless? Yet without Juliette the stones were dull, the enchanted torchlight and fireplace pale, the charms of the portraits, ghosts, and poltergeists were less so, and everything seemed drained. Love is the color of life, and without it he was in the gray.

“So are you going to tell us how you and Capulet ended up in the forest surrounded by Dementors or...?”

Not all students had come out unscathed. Mercutio and Benvolio had been at Dervish and Banges when the attacks happened. An unknown spell had glanced Mercutio’s shoulder, turning most of his arm to stone. Fortunately they were able to escape through Honeydukes, hiding out in the cellar. That was when they stumbled upon the hidden trapdoor.

“A tunnel to the one-eyed lady statue at third floor corridor.” Mercutio had slumped back on his hospital wing bed. “The marvel of this castle.”

But by the fifth day of Mercutio’s stint in the hospital wing the tale had morphed into him battling the five Death Eaters at a time without wands. He and Benvolio accepted it, humored it, welcomed it, because any Mercutio was better than the alternative. It also helped him focus, having a friend in need; it also distracted him from his melancholy. But Mercutio was always too sharp by halves, and it was only a matter of time before the oddness of him and Juliette being together would come to him. Even Benvolio looked taken aback, as if just realizing the implications.

“She’s Angelica’s friend, is she?” he said reflexively. “We met near Gladrag’s and, well, you know girls...”

“Oh, that I do,” said Mercutio silkily and even Benvolio gave a faint smile. “So you three were hanging out together? How generous of you. Going for a menage or am I being too hopeful?”

These lies, he thought with a flicker of anger, he was growing sick of them. “Mercutio—”

“You weren’t with Prewett, because Benvolio and I met her and that Weasley mute outside of Honeydukes. While Mr. Gaga for Redheads here was turning up the charm for Weasley, Prewett said she was waiting for you.” He folded his arms across his chest. “So. You were actually seeing Capulet, and Prewett was in on it.”

And there it was. He was really bad at keeping secrets. “Am.”

Benvolio’s mouth dropped and even Mercutio froze, but he was beyond caring. He felt light, freer than he had been in weeks.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he said hastily as they opened their mouths, “but not now. And you’ll have to promise me not to tell anyone...not even in jest, ‘Cutio...”

And so when Mercutio finally left the hospital wing he met with them in the Room of Requirement and told them in a low voice, a straightforward précis of their relationship, and even to his ears, said aloud, without the significant charged moments and emotional drama, it sounded absurd and trivial, even comic. Mercutio and Benvolio were exchanging looks he could very easily read.

“I am _not_ playing!”

“Too bad,” said Mercutio bluntly. “We’d frankly respect it more if you were.”

“ _Respect_ —”

“Don’t lump me in—” Benvolio said in a strangled sort of tone, but Mercutio continued. 

“Look, Romeo, this is bad. As in, even-Prewett-is-better bad.” He began to pace. “At least Prewett isn’t in the middle of a blood purity war. And _Tybalt_!” He let out a humorless laugh as if just realizing this. “You’ll have to contend with the likes of _Tybalt_.”

“He is your rival, ‘Cutio, not mine.” He was at best neutral towards him, although he hadn’t at all liked the warning he gave him.

“But the point is,” said Benvolio at last, very seriously, “mate...she’s a Capulet. The sacred twenty-eight. Well, not exactly, there is Muggle blood from the sixteenth century, but c’mon, they’re as good as—”

“The point is, they’re rotten,” said Mercutio bluntly. “Like Aunt Walburga-rotten. Alright, not that far,” he admitted as Romeo and Benvolio gave him incredulous looks. “Malfoy-bad, then, but you have to admit they’ve gone far. I wouldn’t even be surprised if Lord Voldemort himself was having tea at their home right now.”

“You think I don’t know that?” His short-lived inner conflict felt ages ago; he wasn’t even angry, just tired. “You think I would be with her if I wasn’t convinced that she was the one for me?” When Mercutio and Benvolio looked to argue, he hurriedly said, “Look, I don’t care about her family. Juliette is not rotten, and that’s what matters. The only thing I ask is that you accept her. For me.” 

And as his two friends exchanged pregnant glances, he knew he was asking a lot. He knew that this would either make or break them. But if he knew them, and he was confident he did, he knew they would not fail him.

“Listen, Romeo,” said Benvolio at last, “let’s—let’s talk it over during break, gain some perspective…”

“I’m staying at Hogwarts during the winter break, ‘Volio,” he said, stepping away. “I’m sorry.”

The time had passed for all of that.  
  
  
  


**_Christmas  
  
_ **

He had rarely, if ever, seen the castle at Christmastime—the enchanted holly, the gleaming floors and singing armor, the huge Great Hall tree that Ogg’s giant assistant, Hagrid, lugged in. Although now, thanks to the Hogsmeade attacks, this Christmas was almost as dispirited as he was.

“You will not stay at the castle.” His mother, trembling with fury at his recalcitrance and worry for him. “How could you even dare consider it, when an attack has occurred? Romeo, be reasonable for once!”

What he was was stubborn, and mercifully of an age to decide for himself. He wanted Hogwarts, the only haven for Juliette and him. He was afraid that, should be return home, his mother would find some way to keep him there and break the bond between him and Juliette. It was not altogether an irrational fear; his mother did not speak of it, but he knew she hadn’t like seeing Juliette and association with that kind of crowd that implied.

In any case, the isolation of the deserted corridors was to his liking. As for the Dementors and the Death Eaters, well...it only strengthened his resolution as he requested a meeting with Dumbledore.

“Sir. I would join you, if you would have me.”

He still could not say the name, but his meaning was clear. To his infinite credit, Dumbledore did not tell him he was too young. Instead he gave him a gaze he was already familiar with.

“Yes, I think it will come to that,” he said, almost apropos to nothing, as if in reply to a conversation. “I know Eleanora’s wishes on the matter, but attacks such as these will only become much more common. We need good, talented witches and wizards to offset the threat, and quickly.”

Relieved as he was, he was not done. “I have one condition, though.”

“Oh, yes.Miss Capulet as well,” said Dumbledore, surprising him. “In fact, I was planning on telling her after the break…but I assume you will tell her.”

He did. For he understood what few people had when it came to this charismatic new Lord Voldemort: if the Wizarding world had any future, he had to be stopped. If he and Juliette were to have any future together, he had to be opposed. Whatever this Order of the Phoenix entailed, it could only lead to him and Juliette together.  
  
  


_**Defy You, Stars  
  
** _

It had not even occurred to him, in his melancholy, the full ramifications of his staying at Hogwarts. Now, with Juliette, Angelica, Benvolio, Tybalt, and Mercutio out, he was dealing with the consequences.

“Hello, Mr. Montague. Fancy seeing you at Hogwarts. You have never stayed for the holidays before.”

Mortice, he thought as he reluctantly turned to her. How Juliette had blushed in shame when she called her the human equivalent of a dementor. But it was more apropos than she had known, especially under the weight of that unblinking, _Avada_ -green stare, which had followed him during Christmas dinner and out the Great Hall.

“Yes, I just...wanted to stick with Hogwarts a little longer.”

“Of course,” she said, eyes glittering. “Your last year, your NEWT year. You have to study to get those Es and Os for your dream career. Have you thought of it yet?”

“I’m not sure.” Herbology did interest him, and Divination, weirdly enough, but he didn’t know how that would translate into an actual job. And of course Transfiguration is such a useful skill for most all the major careers.

“You’re a daft hand at Transfiguration,” said Mortice as if reading his mind. “But you will still have to score an O to get into NEWT-level class.”

That wasn’t right. “Er, Professor Arden said he would accept Es.”

“Yes, but not Professor McGonagall, who is very selective with her students.” At his confusion, she smirked. “Your old professor has returned. Arden is set to leave after the holidays. I would suggest you catch him, give your farewells. He has spoken much of you, and fondly too. Shame he plans just to...slip away…”

Was it true? Was Arden leaving? He felt ridiculously discombobulated. Of course his appointment was always provisory, but he had liked him more than he thought he would. He trusted him. So it was with heavy heart that he found his professor in his office, already in his travel cloak.

“You’re leaving already?”

Professor Arden looked at him sharply; his round face was pale. “You know?”

“I—yes, Mortice just told me.” And finally, unable to take it anymore: “You can’t leave now, professor, at least wait until after holidays, or until McGonagall has returned.”

To his surprise, Arden let out a quick, shaky exhale, and ran a hand through his thick, curly hair. “Oh, yes, Minerva! Yes, she’s returned, she’s at the Three Broomsticks, but I’m not leaving quite yet. I just have to go to, erm, take care of something. An emergency has cropped up—”

But before he could explain further, a silver wolf Patronus appeared, and opened its maw to speak in Professor Escalus’ voice:

_He’s at Charlecote, near the Avon. Be careful._

And as it vanished, almost without knowing he did so, he turned to his professor, who had frozen.

“Who’s at Charlecote?” he asked, surprising himself by his own calm, for he had understood the message immediately.

“No one,” said Arden unconvincingly.

“Tell me!” Suddenly he was seized with fear. “Is Juliette in danger? Is she in harm’s way?”

Arden shook his head, again unconvincingly. “It isn’t like that. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” He would not move until he did, and he planted himself at the doorway.

Arden gave him an odd look of appraisal he had never seen him give before: both sympathetic and ruthlessly searching.

“We—I received intelligence that Lord Voldemort is at the Capulet House,” he said at last.

Of course. The Order. “He took over it, then? Is Juliette held in hostage?”

But to his surprise, Arden closed his eyes briefly.

“He is there...as a guest, Romeo,” he said at last, faintly. “An unwanted one, I think, but...it seems he has made it his temporary headquarters for now.”

But there was more than a little hesitation in his tone, a telling ellipsis. In Arden’s open, readable face, there was something familiar…“There is more, isn’t there?”

Arden gripped his suitcase handle tightly. “No.”

He stared into Arden’s suddenly closed face and wished, for once, that he could do Legilimency. “You won’t tell me. All right. Then you won’t mind if I come with you?”

He looked sharply at him. “That is not possible. You’re still in school.”

“I’m of age without the Trace. Besides, I don’t have to go with you to go to the Capulets.”

Arden put his case down and he knew he shouldn’t, didn’t dare speak, or his own persuasion would fail. There was a chime—one of Arden’s clocks had rung.

“Fine, I’ll tell you,” he said. “But before I do, Romeo. I want your solemn word that you won’t go to the Capulets. There is nothing you can do and you will only be in trouble.”

“I swear.” Promises were made to be broken, anyway.

Arden ran a hand over his dark curls.

“There has been a casualty,” he finally said through gritted teeth. “A death. I’m not sure who it is, no one does. But until we know for certain, no one is enter Capulet House. Are you satisfied now?”

His professor, came the vague thought, as the ice formed in his veins. In trying to protect him, he just as good as told him.

“Romeo?”

“Yes,” he heard himself say. “I understand now.”

Arden gave him almost a sad, disappointed look. “You remind me a little of myself when I was your age. I will hold you to your word. Off you go, then.”

Off he went indeed.  
  
  


**_Charlecote  
  
_ **

It was almost beautiful, this focus, this sense of purpose and energy, without the confusion, doubts, and fears that plagued him, that drove him and propelled him onwards in a haze of cool clarity. With it he was protected from the full knowledge of Juliette being in danger, which hung like some distant thundercloud in his consciousness ( _yes, love, I know. I’m coming_ ). He understood everything now.

The statue of the one-eyed witch, the tunnel, Honeydukes. Thanks to Mercutio, that was one boon. He had already passed his Apparition test, so that was one problem he didn’t have to deal with. A good Disillusionment Charm— _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7_. And now Charlecote.

With a _crack_ the Midlands countryside appeared to him, windswept plains surrounded by thick forests, the great River Avon rolling nearby. Above an overcast sky, he walked up a hilly incline with purposeful strides.

(“I wish I could invite you for Christmas.” At the Shack, Juliette told him with a sigh. “Charlecote’s winters are so mild…it shocked me my first year, all this beautiful snow at Hogwarts. But my parents, they’d never agree. Or agree for the wrong reasons.”

As if seeing Juliette wasn’t incentive enough. “I’ll come, then, during break.” 

“Silly. The estate has powerful wards that keeps out enemies of the families. You have to circumvent them with a token.”)

Juliette’s enchanted red flower, which she had woven through her hair. One day it had mysteriously migrated to his pocket after one of their love sessions, and Juliette languidly told him to keep it if he liked it so much. Now, as Professor Arden would say, it would do him yeoman’s service.

He could feel the wards rippling around him as the estate came into view, a handsome sixteenth-century estate. But something was wrong—even though it was still afternoon, a dark haze had settled, like a fog. Soon he realized the result—sure enough, his hand was visible again. He carefully guarded the flower, like a talisman against his chest, and took out his wand, alert and watchful.

“ _Stupefy_!”

The spell missed him by inches. A masked hooded figure appeared, wand raised. More and more masked hooded figures appeared, wands pointed at him.

“You’re a trespasser, boy,” it said, and even its muffled voice was sneering. “Come with me if you want to live.”

But he was running out of time and could not afford pleasantries. Or restraint, for that matter.

“ _Avada Kedavra!”_

He did not even look if he had hit his target, and the stunned Death Eaters scattered, he fired some more. When some responded in kind, he dodged the beams, levitated statues to absorb attacks.

Spell by spell, Death Eater by Death Eater, but he was beyond all fear. Juliette was dead, and nothing mattered, not the law, not his soul. Nothing.

But there were too many of them, all surrounding him...

“ _Do not kill! It’s Montague!_ ”

The attacks stopped. The hooded figures, masked, appeared with a swish of their cloaks, wands pointed at him. He stopped, but did not raise his wand hand in surrender, holding it loosely to his side. The Death Eater who had shouted approached.

“Why have you come, boy?”

“I’m Romeo Montague,” he said, and even to his ears he sounded ludicrously matter-of-fact. “I’ve come to visit Juliette Capulet. We’re schoolmates at Hogwarts.”

“No visitors are allowed at the Capulet manor, Montague,” said one of the masked figures coldly. “Therefore begone.”

“I would see your master, then,” he said, relentless. “Take me to him.”

His command was not taken well: They laughed callously.

“The Dark Lord does not deal with schoolboys,” he said. “I said begone.”

“Montague?” One of them to the main Death Eater’s right said sharply. “You mean Eleanora’s brat? The blood traitor?”

“Half-blood, too,” said another with a deep voice. “You have a lot of nerve, Montague.”

This nonsense, he thought, blood boiling, was making him lose precious time getting to Juliette. But something in one of the Death Eaters’ voice caught his attention—to his surprise, he recognized it.

“I didn’t know you were a Death Eater, Mr.

Malfoy,” he said quietly.

The one who had spoken stiffened; he threw back his hood to reveal his unmasked face and long whitening blonde hair.

“You are wrong, boy,” he said coldly. “I have nothing to hide.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said shortly. “I know your son, Lucius. Fifth year prefect, yeah?”

Malfoy’s haughty, aristocratic face stiffened. He said nothing.

“He’s a bit of a blighter,” he said honestly, recklessly, “but decent for a Slytherin.” He could not say the same for Abraxas; seeing his cold expression gave him nothing but disdain.

No one said anything; the others seemed to wait on Abraxas’ cue, whose grip on his wand visibly tightened.

“Enough.”

From the shadows, and before his eyes, the rest of the other Death Eaters quickly bowing, cringing, at last he appeared in a long winter’s cloak.   
  
  


**_Voldemort  
  
_ **

Tall, long-fingered, and with a definite, serpentine suggestion in his air. His long, pointed face had a suggestion of youthful good looks, but much of it had gone by an unnatural, waxy pallor, permanently red-tinted eyes, and an almost lipless mouth. He surveyed him, that lipless mouth curling.

“Romeo Montague,” he said in a high, cold voice. “Your blood traitor mother has caused more than enough trouble for us. And now you would create more, hmm? I sense a hunger for death...Don’t tempt me, I may just oblige...”

Laughter and jeers rang in his ears, scarcely audible over the thundering roar of blood.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“I see you have taken care of some of my followers,” he said as if he hadn’t heard his question, burgundy eyes shifting among his squirming followers, “My best wizards, struggling to subdue a teenage boy...pathetic...”

“My lord,” said Abraxas Malfoy, strained, “he had used the Killing Curse, which took us off guard—”

“An unsuccessful one, it seems. Get up, Crabbe. Goyle, Mulciber.” For they were stirring feebly on the ground; one had a bleeding slash in his chest. “You’re fine.”

“M-my lord—”

“You let a seventh year nearly get the best out of you, you deserve it.” Voldemort raised his burgundy-tinged eyes to him. “So there is a ruthlessness to you, Montague. I confess myself impressed. But mere ruthlessness in the name of _love_ —” Said with withering contempt “—is not enough. You have to _mean_ it, boy, to the very bone. Must I teach you this? Must I give you a demonstration?”

He may be a thousand different shades of fool, admittedly, but the simple fact was, even staring, wandless and defenseless, into the face of an obviously twisted guerrilla war cult leader, the face of an ancient prejudice that resulted in his father’s death, fear wasn’t the only thing running through his veins. 

“You take after your Muggle father, I see,” said Voldemort coolly, and he realized, dimly, that he was a Legilimens too. “As do I with my own…Tell me, Montague: Was he as useless as my own father had been?”

More and more nonsense, more infuriating than the last, accompanied by those same asinine jeers. Didn’t they realize, didn’t they understand that it was over, that none of this mattered...? “I’m wasting my time here. Are you done?”

The laughter and jeers stopped. In turn, Voldemort was silent for so long the Death Eaters began to stir; one of them even gave a nervous laugh. But then he did something none of them had foreseen; he rose.

“Fortune has favored you this time, boy,” he said softly, more serpentine than ever. “You have caught me in a good mood. Speak your will, and do not lie...for Lord Voldemort always knows when you lie...”

“I need to see Juliette Capulet,” he said unhesitatingly.

The Death Eaters did not laugh again, but their sneering contempt hovered in the air like a fog. Voldemort’s burgundy eyes were glittering like rubies.

“You’re a fool, Montague,” he said quietly. “And you will lose everything, all to the caprice of your adolescent lust.” But regardless he lowered his wand. “Very well. Abraxas, take his wand. I’ll take you there myself, boy, to your precious Juliette.”  
  
  


**_Living Death_ **

If he had been at all in his right mind, Romeo would have thought this was the strangest thing he had ever done, walking up to the great Capulet estate, following the billowing silk of Voldemort’s cloak, and feeling the prickling glares of the Death Eaters behind him. Abraxas Malfoy kept looking at him with something close to detestation, though he didn’t know why until he remembered, like a memory from another time: His mother had been one of the ones who publicly accused him of poisoning Minister Leach.

“My followers are under orders not to harm you, Montague,” said Voldemort, again reading his mind. “Death, alas, will not come to you from that corner...”

It took him a long while to realize the implications. “You knew I was coming.”

“Your sweetheart remained convinced until the last that you would, wielded it as some sort of threat. And then of course, I felt your magic in the air...your schoolboy lusts make you very, very predictable...”

Inside the estate was plush velvet comfort, warmly decked with holly and myrtle, magical baubles, and streaming banners. As they entered the parlor a crackling fire blazed, he stopped in his tracks. On the long table Juliette laid, motionless and pale in a pale pink dress robes. Around her a gigantic snake was circling, tongue out in a hiss.

“Here lies your precious Juliette,” said Voldemort with a cruel trace of amusement. “Safe, beyond all harm...No, no, Nagini—” And then he gave a series of incomprehensible hisses.

The world disappeared; he quite forgot about Voldemort and the jeering Death Eaters watching, of the retreating snake, hissing in protest. He rushed forward to her side, taking her face in his—cold and clammy to the touch. And yet she looked pristine, her beauty untouched by the decay he knew had to be, as if it were something sempiternal, like Gubraithian fire...

“Preservation charms, courtesy of our good friend Capulet,” he heard Voldemort say, though distantly. “He was most upset, naturally, but with some persuasion he came round, I think...”

What have they done to you, he thought, trembling so badly, her hand shook in his. Why, Juliette? Why did you go? Or else...if it hadn’t been a choice...he looked up at that detestable face.

“You—”

“Your Juliette couldn’t handle the greatness that as heir she stood to possess,” he said coldly. “She could have had it all—witch of a noble house and mother to a pureblood heir, aiding in the purification of the race...but she was weak, as you are, as my own mother was, doting after inferiors, undone, tainted by them...”

This beast, this soulless shell wasn’t even worth listening to. Juliette’s softness, the memory of her sweetness, her honey...these would he take with him, these were now calling him to her side...yes, Juliette, for I belong by your side...and then he wouldn’t have to live in this world…

“But there is hope for you, boy,” said Voldemort, and despite everything his voice easily cut through the sea-roar of despair inside of him. “I have seen it. It is not too late for you, nor perhaps your sweetheart.”

It was this, and nothing else, pulled him from despair. “What?”

“Join me, and I will bring her back.” He interrupted his speech. “Do not doubt I cannot. I, who have taken the steps into immortality more than any other, will humiliate death once more. You may have marred your greatness, but you are still the heir of Montague. And I do not spill wizardly blood unnecessarily...”

He could not think, not while Juliette laid immobile beneath him, not while Nagini hissed in a taut coil, and most certainly not for the likes of this Voldemort. Suddenly, having Juliette be shown this way, her pure beauty prostate to the worst of pureblood supremacists, was unbearable. He covered her with his cloak and with great effort, looked up.

“Kill me then,” he said hoarsely, purposefully. “You’ll be doing a mercy, for once...do it, Riddle...”

“Well, I won’t pretend this isn’t a nice change,” said Voldemort after a pause, dryly as his Death Eaters laughed, although with a burgundy flash of the eyes at his Muggle surname. “But unfortunately that is not within my power to do.”

What was this nonsense? “Then let be with Juliette.”

“She is not yours to take,” said Voldemort and for once he sounded a little unsure. “She is her father’s, we must allow...speak of the devil, Sebastian...”

For there were footsteps, torches magically lit, and Sebastian Capulet, along with his wife and several other witches and wizards burst into the parlor.

“My lord!”

“In good time, sir,” said Voldemort calmly. “As you can see, we have an intruder.”

“This is my house,” said Capulet, visibly swelling to a fury, “It’s not under your jurisdiction to pass judgment—”

“—Which is why I have left him to you,” said Voldemort, looking down at him as if he were a worm. “Though he begged me to end his suffering. But as it is, after all, your enemy’s son, and as he has done you much wrong…”

“What?” Capulet stared at Romeo as if for the first time, holding a partially concealed Juliette. “What is going on?”

“He has seduced your daughter, Sebastian,” said Voldemort and Capulet blanched. “Secret sweethearts, it seems, from school. Your enemy’s son, Sebastian. And now the boy would be with her in death, the fool. Why don’t you punish him? It would be meet for such impertinence. Do it.”

How Capulet reacted he didn’t know; he had his face pressed against Juliette’s body, as if to suck up what precious spirit that lingered there. Only when the Death Eaters hissed did he look up and saw Capulet had taken out not his wand, but a potion phial.

“Pity,” said Voldemort, not sounding it at all. “This was the most fun I had in awhile.”

“If you please, my lord,” said Capulet through gritted teeth. “I would like to revive my daughter. Move, boy.” When he didn’t react right away, he pointed his wand at him. “ _Depulso_!”

And as he was magically torn from Juliette, hitting the floor and as Capulet hurried to his daughter’s side, in that moment everything—the faint secret amusement in those burgundy eyes, Juliette’s still-pristine beauty—clicked. Slughorn’s cheerful voice from sixth year came to him:

_The Draught of Living Death, extremely difficult potion to make, plunges the drinker into a deathlike slumber. No pulse, no warmth, no breath...a convincing and total portrayal of death. Very toxic in large quantities and very dangerous, it goes without saying..._

Juliette, he thought as the Capulets approached, as he came back to life again, his fear returning, what have you done?  
  
  


**_Awake  
  
_ **

She was awake, she was alive, her spirit, beauty intact. She blinked groggily, rising; her father and mother swooped in, loving, occulting.

“Juliette!”

“You could have died!” Capulet even shook her a little before embracing her to his chest. “Never do that again, you hear?”

“Papa…” she murmured.

“It’s all right, my rose, I’m here.”

“Romeo...”

Even the Death Eaters stiffened as the Capulets winced. She stretched out a hand towards him, but before he could even respond in kind, magicked ropes appeared, binding around his chest.

“I think that’s enough for now,” said Voldemort, keeping his wand steadily.

“My lord,” said Capulet with visible restraint, “this is just a schoolboy—”

“—Who trespassed on your property, used the Killing Curse unsuccessfully on several of my men, and, it is apparent, seduced your daughter,” said Voldemort calmly. “Tsk. Perhaps Dumbledore was right for once. He used to say we Sorted too early...”

“Be that as it may,” said Capulet with restraint, swallowing dryly, “as it is my house, I alone hold judgement to dispose of intruders as I see fit.”

He didn’t see Voldemort’s face, nor even Capulet’s. Al he could see was Juliette, a crescent of her pale face looking at him.

“What you will.” To his surprise Voldemort’s reply even carried a hint of a shrug. “You have…let’s see...Nott and Mulciber at your disposal.”

It was, as they could all see, a test of some sort—but of what? Capulet’s eyes had turned flinty. He squared his shoulders.

“Take Montague to the second floor guest room,” he said tersely. “And for Merlin’s sake, treat him well.”  
  
  


**_Incarcerated_ **

Of course the Capulets would have a room all for holding prisoners in their Tudor home, a comfortable if nondescript bedroom with the burgundy Capulet crest, and with a couple of protective enchantments he was effectively locked in. He couldn’t even transfigure a piece of furniture. He was wandless, defenseless, and now that Juliette was alive, the focus and sheer adrenaline that had kept him going had gone, leaving him shaking in residual shock and desperate sobs.

 _She’s alive, she’s well, she’s alive_ was his consciousness’ increasingly desperate refrain, but as the nature of his situation sank in, he realized Juliette could have been truly dead for all the good that did him. He was still no closer to rescuing her, and the divide between them had only grown larger. He was at the mercy of a charismatic self-hating half blood pureblood supremacist maniac, his followers, and the angry parents of his great love. How to remedy this situation? Could this situation get any worse?

“Such woe. Such pain. A love deferred.”

It was Mortice, her clammy hand over his head, and such was his despair that the miracle of her presence barely registered. It was as if, deep down inside of him, he had known.

“G-go.”

“Do you truly wish that?” she breathed. “When I can help you in so many ways, more than you’ll ever imagine?”

He finally looked up and saw her as always, in those billowing ivory robes, sitting next to him on the bed. When she extended a hand toward him, at last the significance of her presence registered. He stood, backing away.

“Who are you?”

“Caught on, have you?” Mortice lowered her hand. “Smart boy...as for who I am, well, I have been called many things through the years, too many to count...”

He made sure to keep her in her line of sight. “Do you work for Voldemort?”

This made her laugh. “Never mind, it seems you haven’t realized after all. No, Tom never could abide me. He detests me, and therefore fears me. He is a weak man, so to speak, weaker even than you and Miss Capulet.” Her eyes glittered. “A pity, since I much like him. He has helped me along so beautifully...have you guessed yet? Perhaps it is not obvious, as most mortals do not regard fairy tales of much importance...”

He gazed at her pointed face, her long braided hair brushing her calves, the icy air about her, and it was like remembering an unsettling dream, bordering on nightmare...

“Death?” he breathed.

Her terrible smile widened. “Excellent guess.”

“A lucky one. You are far from the stuff of fairy tales.”

“Oh, I feature in at least one,” she said ironically, and like a puzzle piece falling into place, everything clicked. Her mother guiding his infant hand along the words of their old copy. 

“The Tale of the Three Brothers.”

“The Peverell brothers were very foolish to have crossed me,” said Mortice and her eyes flashed as if the slight had occurred yesterday. “But they got their comeuppance in the end…or nearly…”

“You made the wand.” He was breathing too loud. “And the stone, and the Cloak...”

“Correction: I allowed them to make them, in their arrogance, their foolishness and pride...but I knew it was a matter of time before they would return to me. For I alone know the fates of all, and everything belongs to me in the end. For the final dance belongs only to me...”

As she spoke she approached him, and despite the alarm bells in his head he was frozen in place, as if the icy air about her that accompanied her was working on him...

“Yours especially,” she whispered, her lips mere inches from him. “How I have waited for you...I could not have Tom, not yet, but you’re better, I can tell...but I can wait a little longer…for eternity, actually.”

He could not move, as if frozen in place. The familiar ice had taken hold of him. “J-Juliette...”

“Oh, you’ll be with her, that is for certain,” she said and for once she looked almost flushed with excitement. “And she’ll be mine as well...but it is not yet time.”

“How?” he breathed.

“Don’t you trust me?” And when he didn’t reply, she smirked again. “I suppose I must show you...very well, my boy...you just relax...”

And despite the fact that he would never sleep with Mortice around, would never dare, he felt his limbs become warm and heavy at her voice and the next thing he knew he was lying on the bed, shaken awake, hearing the yells and the sounds of enchantments in the distance. A voice throaty with sobs was calling him.

“Romeo...wake up...respond...respond...”

Did he yet dream? The fog parted and Juliette’s face appeared over him, her tense face nearly collapsing in joy.

“Juliette!”

She felt exactly the same, golden and light and warm, his sun, his haven. He could not stop touching her, feeling the life of her, as if it could dispel the image of her lifeless, cold and pale on the table...

“He came a week after break,” she whispered. “He wanted to make the estate a hideout for him and his lackeys. There was also something else, something about a cup...anyway, he didn’t leave Father or Mother much of a choice. And then Paris—”

“What?” The last person he expected. “He was here?”

Juliette’s eyes lowered. “He proposed to me. Father and Mother didn’t leave me a word edgewise. I think _he_ told them about you. I didn’t know what to do. There was a Draught of Living Death in the potions cupboard...I thought to buy some time.”

She could have nearly died. “You didn’t think to tell me?”

“I owled you. It must have been intercepted...Romeo, I’m so sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” If only Slughorn had taught them the symptoms of the Draught of Living Death…but it was too late for that. “I love you.”

She clung to him. “I love you too.”

But a crash below made them jump. She took his hand, blanching. “Romeo, we have to go, the Order is downstairs, fighting. I brought some Galleons, they should serve us.”

“Our wands—”

“I have them here.” And to his pleasant shock she produced his sycamore, along with her holly. “Our house-elf Ama. She knows where everything is, and since they don’t pay attention to house elves...”

His girl was a genius. “Let’s go.”

Downstairs was deserted except for two duelers (“I know a shortcut,” Juliette hissed hurriedly) and they ran through the corridors, as they dodged jinxes and hexes flying overhead, and casting some in retaliation. Juliette was leading, lulling him towards the west wing.

“Here!”

It was Juliette’s bedroom suite with long silk curtains. They pushed through the double doors into the open air balcony. Beneath them several fierce duels were underway, some which he recognized—Nott with Meadowes, Rosier with McKinnon and Mulciber, and Travers with Bones and Dearborn. Two redheaded brothers (“Angie’s cousins!” Juliette gasped), both but two years out of Hogwarts, and yet holding it well against an increasingly furious Dolohov. The sight shocked, roused him; for a brief moment he completely forgot about escaping.

“ _Accio Brooms_!” A burst and distant _clang_ later, two Cleansweeps appeared, hovering. They clambered on.

“On the count of three, one...two...three!”

They were off in the air and for a few moments he felt free, light as air—

And then a barrier, a force like a powerful wind current, only too warm, forced them back, and they fell, hard, into the balcony. As they struggled to get up, a cold voice could be heard above.

“Going somewhere?”

It was Voldemort, hovering without a use of a wand or broom, robes billowing, and at last the due terror he should have felt at the sight of him, more beast than man, bloomed within him.

“You have tried my patience for the last,” he said quietly, raising his wand. “You lovebirds have foiled my plans for the last time. _Avada_ —”

But he cut off and instead deflected a red stream, which hit the railing of the balcony and bounced off harmlessly. They whirled around; Tybalt was standing between the open balcony doors, wand raised and pointed at Voldemort.

“Pardons, _lord_ ,” he said evenly enough, but his eyes were flashing oddly and his grip on his wand tightened. “But harm one hair on my cousin and you shall not live to regret it.”

“Tybalt.” Juliette’s voice had broken in a mangled sob.

Voldemort eyed him, much like a boy eyeing a curious specimen of insect in interest before getting bored and squashing it.

“I really do hate to spill pure blood,” he said quietly. “Stand aside, boy.”

“Do whatever you like to Montague,” said Tybalt, visibly swallowing, his wand shaking. “Only spare her.”

“You threaten me and in the same breath ask for clemency!”

“Please.”

Was that a hint of disappointment in his red-tinged eyes?

“Love,” he said at last. “It serves for nothing but makes you weak, always. You’ll soon learn.”

And with a slash of his wand—Juliette let out a horrible cry, and like instinct he took her in his arms—Tybalt fell, toppling over backwards to the floor. He did not move.

“Pity,” said Voldemort, but he looked cold. “He could have been a great servant. But there is no place for family loyalty...all belong to me, Lord Voldemort...”

And it was then, Juliette trembling like a leaf in his arms, that hatred, true hatred came to him.

“You monster.”

“Greatness always inspires envy,” said Voldemort, “and the weak confuse it with monstrosity. He will live, Montague. That is the mercy I extend to those I deem worthy. Less than I can say for you, alas...”

And as the Dark Lord raised his wand again, and as he pulled Juliette’s trembling body to him, he knew his end. Perhaps he had known it all along, known it the moment Mortice had come, _Avada_ -green eyes looking over him with naked hunger. Or perhaps when he met Juliette, carrying her Amortentia scent, or in the Shack, where they had embraced their small death in each other’s arms. But they would never have enough time for what they could do, for what they could be. And now, looking at Juliette’s tear-stained face, hands tightening on her forearms, all that mattered was going on their own terms.

 _Exploding_ , he almost mouthed in her ear. _I love you_.

He felt her tremulous nod, and the words against his lips, barely audible. _I love you_.

The Dark Lord raised his wand and like twins of one mind, they moved, shoulder to shoulder, facing him, compliment wands tightening and warming in anticipation beneath their hands.

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

“ _Bombarda Maxima!_ ”

* * *

Even years later, when future Order and Death Eater members grew and graduated, when the Dark Lord’s reputation for powerful magic, cruelty, and craven evil grew to such an extent that few dared speak his moniker, and his real name was hence lost in the mist of time; even after so many courageous witches and wizards of all bloods and creeds fell to his rapacious avarice; even after the said Dark Lord arrived at the Potters and disappeared for years, causing great rejoicing and an era of peace throughout the wizarding world; and even after the Dark Lord returned and waged three years’ worth of terror before his marked equal, Harry Potter, finished him…even after all of that, the seismic crater that was once the Capulet garden still remained, though little buds of tough magical plants sprouted in the charred soil and flourished like a miniature forest. The broken estate was restored, but not its masters’ broken hearts, which saw them move, escaping abroad. Eleanora Montague could not cope, and died an early death, though not before giving a haven to Order members and their families, and for a time the Montague estate became headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix as Grimmauld Place would one day become. Even the Dark Lord, seemingly invulnerable, with and without his immortality tethers, was not left unscathed: He came out of it, so his followers fearfully whispered among themselves, more inhuman than ever, his hair charred to baldness, his pristine ivory now a sickly pale, his pointed face more reptilian than ever. These murders had been his first mistake, and he would go on to make many more in this vein.

As for the lovers, there was little left of their bodies and their wands after the fact; due to the destruction of Capulet House, it was fervently hoped their true death had been by the Killing Curse. They were buried, it was agreed, in the garden beneath the broken balcony, in an enchanted grove: This ancient magic was never and could never be precisely known, but the correct instinct was to bury them together so as to prevent a deeper, longer lasting curse. But this precaution was to no avail. To both wizards and unknowing Muggles, alike, the place would be forever haunted, forever cursed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me hours of HP Lexicon perusal just to decide on RetJ's last spell, but I finally settled on my gut feeling re: "In their triumph die, like fire and powder / Which, as they kiss, consume." I guess Incendio could have worked, but Bombarda Maxima felt more epic, apropos...explosive. ;) On the other hand, the Draught of Living Death I glomped on immediately since it was so obviously inspired by R&J proper. Ditto with La Mort and Death from the Tales of the Three Brothers; I know in the HP universe it's just a myth, but you just don't look at a gift of not one, but TWO anthropomorphized Deaths in the mouth. Rowling, you magpie genius. 
> 
> Charlecote was where the estate of Stratford sheriff Sir Thomas Lucy was, near Stratford-upon-Avon, Shakespeare's hometown. it has long been a tradition that Sir Thomas Lucy whipped or else punished young Shakespeare severely for poaching his deer and in retaliation Shakespeare (supposedly) wrote a satiric ballad on Lousy Lucy with some Take Thats on his cuckoldry. Lucy was a zealous prosecutor of Catholics, so perhaps his supposed ill-treatment was ideologically motivated. Either way, the event supposedly made Shakespeare flee to London. YMMV with the veracity of this story, it is pretty wild. But given its unpleasant and mythic associations, I made that the site of the Capulet estate. 
> 
> And RetJ's Patronuses are finally revealed! I confess, I was very tempted to go the same-Patronus, falcon route - both R&J use falconry metaphors and literally call each other falcons ("tassle-gentle" and "nyas"). But I couldn't help thinking about how Tonks and Snape's same-animal Patronuses were more the products of really intense shock and cataclysmic events just as much as love: Lily's death (so I gather) and Lupin's rejection. Also, as apropos I feel the whole R&J = falcon connection is, I know it would feel random and awkward to most people - such a badass bird associated with (an unfairly viewed as) sappy love couple. So I went for obvious, complimentary Patronuses instead à la Jily; it's what most of you lot would expect, anyway ("a snowy dove trooping with crows," Juliette's insistence on the "nightingale"). 
> 
> Anyhoo, hope you enjoyed! Alas, yes, it's still the same sad ending - that's our favorite diehard Shakespearean couple for you. However, I did contemplate actually going the love shield protection route - one of them dying for the other would definitely work, especially since Voldemort is more likely to give (pureblood nobility) the choice to live at this point in time. I also toyed with the idea of Voldemort using Juliette's wand against Romeo - it'd would be so like him, that drama queen. But there was no way he would have survived either a love shield or Juliette's wand straight up NOPE-ing and rebounding the Killing Curse back at Voldy. Bye-bye, Dark Lord, hello scarless Harry Potter. I'm a canon nut, what can I say? 
> 
> Anyhoo, don't forget to give kudos, comments, reviews, bookmarks, shout-outs, owl post - whatever works. Thanks!


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